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\ 


THE SILK OF THE KINE 


a movei 


By L. McMANUS 


The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last; 

What drove her forth but the dragon flyf 
In the golden vale she shall feed full fast. 

With her mild gold horn and her slow dark eye, 

—Aubrey de Vere 







WAY 


*^1 WASr.'' 


NEW YORK 

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 

1896 




<? 




Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers. 


AU rights reserved. 


'Ho! Brother Teage, what is your story? 

I went to the wood, and shot a Tory, 

I went to the wood and shot another, 

Was it the same, or was it his brother?" 

‘/ hunted hun in, I htmted him out. 

Three times through the bog, and about and about, 
Till out of the bush I spied his head. 

So I levelled my gun, and shot him dead." 


Irish Nursery Rhyme 


/ 


. J 

» 



THE SILK OF THE KINE 


I 

“ ‘ What is swifter than the wind ?’ said Fionn. 

‘The mind of a woman,’ said the maiden.” 

- Margery Ny Guire sat in the horse-litter 
with the Transplanter’s Certificate in her 
clenched hand. The traces of a long journey 
were on her dress, and from under her straw 
hat, with its faded ribbons, her little woe- 
begone face looked back towards the east. 

The air around her was full of sound. The 
tramp of hoofs and feet made a deep mono- 
tone as men and cattle plodded over the plain. 
Every now and then some animal among the 
herds lowed in distress, or a sharp cry of human 
grief, abrupt, piercing as a keen^ told of the 
bitterness and tumult of a soul. The crowd 
was broken up into groups ; many of the horses 
were laden with household goods, others drew 


2 


cumbrous-looking carts, around which women 
and children hung, while fifty yards in the rear 
rode half a troop of horse. 

Every face except the soldiers’ in that slowly 
moving mass of humanity showed a passion of 
hate or grief. Before each man and woman 
lay a life that they feared more than death. 
Along the route their ranks had been thinned 
by despairing souls seeking their own rest from 
a grim world in lough or river. It was the 
exodus of a race ; but steel swords drove, not 
a fiery pillar led, the Transplanted into the 
land of desolation. 

Margery heard the wailing of the children, 
the broken voices, and the lowing of cattle as 
one in an evil dream. Life had been this 
dream since she had left the North to obey the 
Order. The certainties of the future had taken 
forms to her mind, and danced like the Erinyes 
in her path. Near her litter a woman sobbed, 
and the sound made her lean over the side 
with outstretched arms for the child the 
mother held up. The pallid face raised tow- 
ards her told her of suffering worse than her 
own, and she called to the man who led her 
garran to stop. 

“ I am strong and well,” she said, “ and you 
shall ride.” 


3 


When she had alighted and the garran had 
moved on with its new burden, she stood for a 
minute watching it with wide, vague eyes as 
it disappeared in the crowd. Then, suddenly 
starting, she walked forward as the clank of 
scabbards struck on her ear. 

Christ will come in the East,” she said to 
herself. “When He comes He will judge 
these men of the devil.” 

It was a warm April afternoon, but pools of 
water lay in the hollows, and the ground was 
ploughed into mud by the cattle. A green 
mist hung on the awakening trees, and the 
spring flowers had broken into starry blossoms 
through the mosses in the thickets. 

Every horror she dreaded lay in the West. 
As the people passed her by and she fell to 
the rear, a passion of longing for the deliver- 
ance of the nation filled her heart. The tumult 
there made her pause and turn her back upon 
the declining sun that had shone bright and 
warm all day upon her misery. A line of steel 
barred the eastward path, and her eyes sought 
the sea of light that spread far into space. 
Silvery cloud -boats floated in it to a rosy 
strand ; shining forms looked over the gleam- 
ing battlements ; a blessing, not a curse, seemed 
breaking from the sky. The peace and beauty 


4 


mocked her pain ; her heart cried for the Judge 
who would avenge the slain and the torture of 
the years. Night rushed down upon her soul, 
the mist gathered in her eyes, and when the 
soldiers rode up they found her lying uncon- 
scious upon the grass. 

She was ordered to rise, then her silence 
and attitude made the officer in command bid 
a man dismount. The trooper turned her over 
and glanced at her face. 

“ Dead ?” said the officer. 

“ Dead as Rahab, her mother,” answered 
the soldier, and remounted. The party rode 
on. 

Life and memory returned to the girl a little 
later ; but she lay still, looking up at the brown 
sheathed buds of the oak under which she had 
fallen. She felt no wish to rise, nor knew any 
reason why she should live. Once she thought 
of the wolves and listened for the cry of the 
pack. Far in the distance she heard the faint 
lowing of the herds, and knew that she had 
fallen out of the terrible march. A breeze 
stirred the branches, and their shadows danced 
across her form. The whispers of the wind 
filled the air with sounds like the sighs and 
murmurs of some strange, lost host. Now and 
then golden lights shimmered over the mossy 


5 


bark, and gleaming brown -and -green islands 
stood out and vanished. 

Her lids drooped and closed again till the 
sound of voices made her sit up with a sudden 
start of a wild animal roused in its lair. Any- 
thing human to her at the moment was terri- 
fying. The land sloped from where she sat to 
a sandy hollow, and there she saw two men 
treading their way through the stunted black- 
thorn bushes. They came up the rising 
ground, and one of them shouted as he saw 
her. He wore a red coat, untanned boots 
that reached to his thighs, and a steel cap. 
He hurried forward, halting suddenly when 
a few feet from the tree. His companion, 
who was not in uniform, joined him, and they 
both stood in silence before the girl. The 
soldier’s hand rested on the iron hilt of his 
sword as his gaze wandered down her face to 
her feet. 

His eyes chilled her. The cold, calculating 
light in them seemed to war with his loose, 
sensual lips. They went again to her face, and 
she made an effort to risq. 

“ I would speak with you,” he said, sud- 
denly. “ Hearken to me attentively. Who 
are you, and why are you in this spot ?” 

She was unable to answer. Her right hand 


6 


was pressed to the ground as she knelt on 
one knee ; her gaze was upon his face. 

“ What ! no tongue? Then, lo! I will find 
you one. You are that woman of the Trans- 
planted that hath fled back to the Shannon. 
For this you shall be made a warning to all 
Irish and Papists.” 

His companion nudged him ; he was a 
younger man, with a subdued leer in his eye. 
“ The Joseph of Thornbiiry will be due in a 
week,” he remarked. 

If the wind favors,” said the soldier, 
shortly. 

“Twelve — leaving out the three, and this 
wench thirteen,” continued the man. “ A fair 
cargo for the Tobacco Islands.” 

“As I have trailed a pike I warrant I’ll in- 
crease it,” replied the soldier. 

“ Let go the three,” urged the man. “ The 
Adventurers and soldiery will raise an out- 
cry.” 

His companion’s answer was swift. “ I tell 
you, man of fear,” he exclaimed, “ the three 
are Irish !” 

As he spoke a light that might have come 
from hell flashed into the girl’s mind. Leth- 
argy, physical weakness, vanished before it. 
A cry of horror broke from her lips. “ No ! 


7 


you dare not — you dare not ! You shall not 
sell me as a slave !” she cried. 

The younger man grinned. The soldier 
with three strides reached her side. “ Is that 
your tune, mistress ?” he said, coolly. “ Know 
that the Lord hath delivered the wild Irishrie, 
their man -servants and their maid -servants, 
their cattle and all their goods, into the hands 
of his chosen people. So, thus for the first- 
fruits !” 

He seized her roughly, and, dragging off her 
scarf, wound it about her mouth. His com- 
panion caught one of her arms, and both men, 
raising her to her feet, forced her forward. 

Margery’s eyes glowed with a sudden light. 
In the heart of despair she had found her 
courage. She determined to kill herself be- 
fore the man -catchers brought her to Gal- 
way or Limerick. A lake or river in her own 
land should cover her from shame and agony. 

They spoke to each other now and again 
across her head, and agreed that her appear- 
ance warranted them at putting her price at 
thirty pounds. They referred to her hair, her 
features, her figure, with a coolness that cut 
her like a lash. Once the younger man made 
a coarse joke about her getting a husband in 
the Tobacco Islands, whereupon the soldier 


8 


bade him refrain from vain and carnal words, 
which were neither for the edifying of them- 
selves nor the girl. 

The direction they followed was southwest, 
leaving behind them the old track of the Con- 
naught Clans when they went up to war with 
the men of the Pale. The sun was near the 
horizon, and both men were anxious to get to 
a certain shelter before nightfall. They swept 
the country with keen glances on reaching 
any elevation, lest a wood -kerne or Torie 
lurked among the trees or in the hollows. 
Margery hung heavy and helpless on their 
arms. The younger man swore, and the sol- 
dier, though he reproved him for his oath, 
struck her himself, threatening to kill her if 
she did not mend her pace. 

The armies of Coote and Ireton had 
marched with fire and sword through the 
land ; and they crossed wild wastes, skirting 
bogs or floundering in the currachs, meeting 
neither man nor woman on their way. Once 
they passed the blackened walls of a dis- 
mantled castle, where five bodies swung from 
the trees. As the sun began to dip towards 
the Atlantic they entered a thicket, where a 
track through the underwood led to a narrow 
strip of open land bordered by a river. A 


9 


causeway made of wickerwork had been flung 
from bank to bank, and they dragged Mar- 
gery upon it. Boggas, the soldier, went first, 
his right hand grasping her wrist, while his 
companion held her by the waist. The half- 
rotten bridge swayed beneath their feet, and 
she could see the long river grasses moving in 
the current. The men were so eager to get 
across that neither noticed for a few moments 
that a soldier rode along the opposite bank. 
Boggas was the first to see him, and stopped 
short. 

“ What do you wait for?” asked the younger 
man. ‘‘As we stand here we are a fair mark 
for the Tories.” 

Boggas made no reply, and when his fellow 
saw the rider his hand tightened on Margery. 
“What king-killer have we here?” he said, in 
alarm. 

“ One of Ireton’s Horse,” answered the elder 
man, coolly. “Come on. This is an honorable 
traffic, and we have nothing to fear. I did 
but pause to reconnoitre, as a soldier should.” 

He strode forward, dragging the girl with 
him. The trooper on the bank had turned his 
face towards them. His reins were slack on 
his horse’s neck as the animal trod through 
the marsh-marigolds and iris clumps, and his 


lO 


air was easy and careless. Suddenly he sat 
up in his saddle and eyed the men for a mo- 
ment before his voice rang out across the 
water. “ Forward!” he cried, and his tone had 
a ring of authority in it. 

The man-catchers glanced at each other and 
paused. 

“ He will have a finger in the making of this 
pie, I perceive,” said Boggas. “ But thirty 
pounds splits easier for two than for three. 
We will resist him.” 

“ I am a man of peace, not a brawler,” an- 
swered the younger man, sullenly. But, never- 
theless, at a word from Boggas, he drove Mar- 
gery forward. 

When they were close to the bank the horse- 
soldier spoke again. “ Whom have you got 
there ?” he demanded, sharply. 

Boggas looked across the country, and at 
the brown and purple mountains that lined 
the west before he answered. His eyes were 
more reflective than audacious. “A prey of 
my bow and my spear,” he said, his glance 
still shifting from point to point. “Yea, a 
Moabitish damsel whom the Lord hath deliv- 
ered into my hand.” 

His interrogator’s face darkened. “Answer 
my question,” he said, sternly. 


In truth I have. Stay not my comrade 
and me on our way, lest peradventure a mis- 
fortune befall thee.” 

“ Do you not recognize my rank ?” asked 
the officer. “You shall ride the wooden horse 
for this.” 

The soldier turned and looked at him, and 
his manner instantly changed; yet a certain 
insolence lurked in his tone. “ I do now per- 
ceive, sir, that you are an officer in Ireton’s 
Horse — brave lads who have not yet ceased to 
weep for their general’s death. Truly this 
is an accursed land, where the devil and the 
plague have done their worst.” 

“ Where did you get that girl ?” demanded 
the officer, abruptly. 

“ I found her not. I am but here helping 
my friend in his labor. He is an agent ap- 
pointed by the Commissioners to see to the 
deportation of the Papist Irish to the Tobacco 
Islands. I pray thee, friend,” he added, suave- 
ly, turning to his companion, “ tell the officer 
where you took this maid.” 

The man gave him a glance, then coughed 
and cleared his throat. “ I had a damnation 
work in keeping her,” he replied. “ She hath 
several times tried to escape, and hath spoken 
evilly of the Commonwealth. I found her — 


12 


why, truly I found her in this wise. She and 
others have been committed to my charge by 
the Lord President for embarkation to the To- 
bacco Isles.” 

At these words Margery stirred. Then the 
knowledge that it was but another enemy be- 
fore whom she stood kept her still and frozen. 

The officer glanced at her again. “ Remove 
that scarf,” he commanded. 

For a moment Boggas hesitated before he 
slowly unwound it from her mouth. 

“ Who are you ?” came the question from 
the rider. 

She looked up and saw a young man, whose 
gray eyes met hers from under his montier cap. 
A crimson sash was wound round the waist of 
his buff coat ; a long sword swung by his side. 
But to her in her fear he was not human ; her 
eyes only saw one of the terrible soldiers whose 
swords had bit deep at Drogheda and Wex- 
ford. Then almost involuntarily she held up 
the Transplanter’s Certificate, and an ugly 
light leaped into Boggas’s eyes as he saw the 
officer stoop and take it. 

The certificate ran thus : 

“ Barony of Dartree^ Co, of Monaghan. We^ 
the said CommissionerSf do hereby certify that 


13 


Phelim McMahon of Dartree\ in the Co. of 
Monaghan, hath, upon the igth day of Feb. 
1654, in pursuance of a declaration of the Com- 
missioners of the Parliament of the Common- 
wealth of Engla^id for the affairs of Irelafid, 
bearing date of the \th of October 1653, de- 
livered unto us, in writing, the na^nes of him- 
self and of such persons as are to remove with 
him, with the quantities of their stocks and til- 
lage, the co 7 ite 7 its whereof are as followeth : 
The said Phelim M' Mahon, adged sixty years, 
white haire, tall stature ; Lady Margery Ny^ 
Guire, his grand-daughter , daughter of the late 
delinquent and Irish rebel. Cornier, Earl of Fer- 
managh, Id. Vis. Maguire, adged twenty years, 
flaxen haire, middle stature ; Edmund O' Done l- 
ly, tenant, adged twenty-five years, brown haire, 
middle stature ; Teage M'Donagh, adged thirty 
years, brown haire, iniddle stature ; Derrnod 
Regan, adged thirty, middle stature, black haire ; 
Joan Ny Mahony, adged thirty -three years, 
middle stature, red haire ; Nuala Ny Divyer, 
adged tiuenty years, flaxen haire, middle stat- 
ure. His substance fifty zvinter acres of corn ; 
cows sixty ; forty garrans ; three ploughs of 

* Ny or ni, a contraction of inghean, a daughter, 
which in Irish was always prefixed to the surnames of 
the daughters in a family. 


H 


oxen; forty swine ^ great and small ; four geld- 
ings ; out of which he payeth contribution. The 
contents whereof we believe to be trueT 

The officer looked from the paper to the 
girl. ‘‘ There are two flaxen - haired women 
here. Which are you ?” 

Her eyes fell. “ Margery Ny Guire.” 

“ How is it you have fallen out from your 
party ?’' 

“ I fainted,” she said, slowly, and her lips 
trembled. 

“ To what part of Connaught is your father 
transplanted ?” 

“ To Erris ; but he is dead. He died as we 
came along.” 

“ His substance is then yours.” 

“ The Commissioners took more than half 
of it. The rest was taken or died on the 
road.” 

There was a pause. “ Have you any rela- 
tion in Ireland ?” 

She held her head erect. “ No. My broth- 
er is with the king.” 

“ What portion of Erris was assigned to 
your grandfather ?” 

The girl’s eyes dilated. “ Land where the 
heather barely covers the rocks. Where there 


5 


is neither a house to live in nor soil to be 
tilled.” 

This was a very accurate description of Er- 
ris, as he knew, having lately ridden through 
its wilds. He made no comment and contin- 
ued his examination. “ When did you fall into 
the hands of these men?” 

“ Two hours ago. They forced me to come 
with them.” 

All her answers were given in a dreamy, ex- 
pressionless tone, her voice forming a contrast 
to the sharp, clear accent of her interrogator. 
He turned to Boggas, who had already begun 
to speak. “ This damsel is wholly given over 
to lies,” said the soldier, resuming the nasal in- 
tonation, “even as Jezebel, the accursed wife 
of King Ahab. Hearken not to her words, 
and let my comrade and me continue our 
way.” 

“ Your name and regiment?” demanded the 
officer. The man looked boldly into his 
face. 

“ Axtell’s Regiment of Foot,” he answered, 
with a ring of defiance. “ I was sergeant to 
within a few days ago. My name is Jehu 
Boggas.” 

“Then, Jehu Boggas, late sergeant in Ax- 
tell’s Foot, return whither you have come. If 


i6 


I mistake not, you will be brought before the 
drumhead for this.” 

The man’s eyes again darted round the 
scene and his hand went to the hilt of his 
sword. Then, quick as thought, he made a 
step forward, dragging Margery with him. 

“Stop!” cried the officer, a sudden fire in his 
eyes. 

Boggas’s hand tightened on the girl’s, and 
he forced her on. 

“ Stay me not 1” he cried. “ This damsel 
hath become my lawful spoil, and I will yield 
her to no man. Reflect that we are two here 
in this wilderness and you but one. Have I 
toiled and sweated to have my prey torn from 
my hands ?” 

A metallic click followed his words. The 
officer had drawn and cocked his pistol. 

“ Listen, rascal,” he said, his tone even and 
cool. “ It was a leveller such as you that the 
Lord Protector shot in front of the army on 
Triploe Heath. I give you three minutes to 
recross the bridge. After that, if you are still 
here, I will blow out your brains.” 

“ Good sir, spare me,” cried out the young- 
er man, retreating to the bridge; “ I’ll be over 
in a minute. Come, Boggas, good Boggas,” he 
went on, “ let the scurvily maid be. Lord ! 


7 


ain’t our lives worth more than a damned Pa- 
pist wench !” 

Seeing himself deserted, the soldier paused 
and looked from the rider’s face to the barrel 
of the pistol pointed at his head. His eyes 
were ugly and fierce for a minute ; then, with 
sudden self - control, he dropped Margery’s 
hand and made a salute. 

“ Since you are one in authority, sir,” he 
said, speaking naturally, “ I must fain obey 
you. But I would let you remember, sir, that, 
by the decree of the Parliament, any man, 
woman, or child of the Transplanted Irish 
found out of the province after the first day 
of May may be killed without trial or order 
of magistracy.” 

He turned and walked back to the bridge, 
striking his comrade contemptuously on the 
shoulder as he put his foot on the shaking 
wickerwork. 

“ If it were not for your mother I’d run you 
through, you cursed jack-pudding!” he mut- 
tered, and strode on. 

The other grinned. “ Bless my good moth- 
er,” he chuckled, as he followed him. 

The officer sat still, with his pistol pointed 
on the bridge till the men had crossed the 
river. Margery stood where Boggas had left 


i8 


her, her face white and tearless, as much 
afraid of her rescuer as she was of the man- 
catchers. For five minutes neither moved nor 
spoke. The rattle of the bit and the rush of 
the water filled the pause. Then the horse- 
man’s eyes fell on the girl. 

Her flaxen hair had fallen loose, framing the 
pallor and misery of her face. He noticed the 
rich material of her dress, the signs of birth and 
elegance about her, the present wretchedness 
of her condition ; a second later he looked away 
and scanned the horizon. 

Trees and the winding line of river met his 
view, and a distant bog, and out towards the 
west the mountains, with the shadows lying 
each like a dark -blue cloak in the hollows. 
Not a sign of life was to be seen. A si- 
lence held the land — the silence that follows 
where sword and fire and the plague have 
been. 

To ride on and leave her to her fate would 
be a reproach to his manhood. Slave-stealers 
haunted the kingdom, wolves infested the 
wilder parts of the country, the province was 
swept by horrors. Yet he was no knight- 
errant, nor, under the circumstances, dared be 
so. How dare he, an English officer in the 
army of the Commonwealth, take charge of a 


19 


girl, a Catholic, an Irishwoman, and one of 
the damned Transplanted ? 

He looked at her face again, and their eyes 
met. With a sudden impulse of fear she 
turned towards the water, and in a moment he 
was off his horse and caught her in his arms. 
She struggled for an instant, then a film crept 
over her eyes, and she felt herself falling into 
unfathomed depths, beyond the earth, beyond 
life. 

He laid her on the ground, and drawing a 
flask of wine from his saddle-bag, put it to 
her lips. The color came back faintly to her 
cheeks, and in a few minutes she sat up. He 
rose to his feet and looked at her. 

“Why did you try to take your life?” he 
said. 

She shuddered. “Why should I live?” 

“ When had you last rest ?” 

“Yesterday,” she answered, sobbing, but 
without tears. “ I have walked or ridden for 
twenty-four hours.” 

“ Then you must sleep,” he said, authorita- 
tively. “ Lie under that tree.” 

She obeyed him in a dazed way. He 
loosened the girths of his saddle, and, picket- 
ing his horse, moved a few yards off to walk 
up and down by the bank. 


20 


Twilight had fallen ; a salmon-colored bar of 
light spread along the edge of the southwest 
sky, dark-blue clouds swung above, and higher 
still lay a trail of paling yellow. The singing 
of the river seemed to swell into a great chorus 
of song as the night deepened around him. 

When the stars danced out he took his cloak 
from the saddle and spread it over the sleeping 
girl. For a moment he paused to look at her 
face ; the worn lines it had shown an hour 
before had gone. Her family, he knew, had 
been cast out, root and branch. She was an 
outlaw beyond the Shannon. She had no 
claim to any shelter on earth but the shelter 
that the heather and rocks of Erris might give 
her. 

He regretted that she had crossed his path. 
His manhood demanded that he should feel a 
measure of sympathy for her; his profession 
forbade him to do so. It was playing with fire 
for an English officer to take an interest in an 
Irishwoman. Soldiers were forbidden to marry 
the women under the severest penalties. Of- 
ficers who did so were removed from their 
command. Intrigues led to a flogging at the 
limbers of a piece of ordnance for the rank 
and file, to a court-marital and ruin for their 
superiors. Yet his duty was clear. He had 


21 


recognized it as he paced the bank. He must 
bring her with him to Tuam to await the will 
of Sir Charles Coote, the Lord President of 
Connaught. That man of iron, or the Com- 
missioners, alone had power to settle her fate. 

He turned aside, and, lighting his pipe, 
walked again to and fro till the moon rode 
high across the sky and the white stream of the 
Milky Way made a path down the heavens. 
An hour later, as the girl still slept, he gathered 
sticks, and, kindling a fire, sat before it with 
his pistols cocked and ready for any Torie that 
might appear. The light gleamed on the 
water, and now and agajn he heard a salmon 
leap as it went down stream. It was close 
upon dawn when she suddenly raised herself 
on one arm, and stared across the circle of light 
at her guard. 

Her eyes had the strained look of one who 
was picking up the dropped threads of her 
life. Presently her gaze cleared, and she laid 
her head down again. A gleam of firelight 
touched her hair, and her upraised arm hid her 
face. For half a minute he looked at her 
across the glow. 

“ She will get a chill,” he reflected. “ I will 
tell her to come near the fire.” 

Removing his cap from his head, he rose to 


22 


his feet. A stick snapped under his jack-boot, 
and the girl looked up. 

“ The grass is damp,” said the young man, 
“ and I fear you will fall ill if you lie there 
longer.” 

She glanced at him, but made no reply. Her 
face looked ghost-like in the half-darkness, but 
he was vaguely conscious of a difference in her 
— that she was no longer the despairing girl 
whom he had ordered to sleep. As he stood 
hesitating, she suddenly rose, letting his cloak 
fall to the ground. Raising it, he placed it 
over her shoulders, but, as if unaware of his 
act, she drew near the fire. 

As she knelt before it on one knee, with her 
hands held towards the heat, he went to his 
horse and took some bread and meat from his 
saddle. These he offered her, and for a few 
minutes she ate, then, with a hurried gesture, 
put the food aside. “ It chokes me,” she said, 
as if to herself. 

He poured out some wine, and she took a 
mouthful, and in the same agitated manner 
put the cup from her. A moment later she 
raised her hand to push back her hair, and 
accidentally touched the cloak. She looked 
closer at it and took it off. 

“ Why do you do that?” he asked. 


23 


“ It hath been where my people have been 
killed,” she replied, with a shiver. 

He threw a glance at her face. The girl 
was staring into the fire, her eyes fires them- 
selves. To her he was not so much a man as 
something unhuman ; one of the army that 
had eaten up the land, whose swords had 
never turned back at the cry of Irish woman 
or child. Their position — alone in the wilds, 
in the heart of the night — had not struck her, 
he saw. 

“ In another hour,” he presently remarked, 
“ I must ride on.” 

“You can go now,” she said, briefly. 

“We will wait for the dawn.” 

She started, and her eyes turned upon him. 

“ Do you take me with you ?” Her tone 
was indignant, protesting. 

“ Can I leave you here ?” he answered. 

“ The wolves — the man-catchers — ah ! But 
where do you take me ?” 

“My squadron lies in Tuam,” he said. “I 
am on my way thither.” 

Her lips quivered, a color rushed over her 
face. For a moment she tried to command 
herself, then she broke down. 

“No, no!” she said, passionately. “Not 
there 1 I cannot face those cruel men !” 


24 


He knew she meant the Lord President and 
the Loughrea Commissioners. He also knew 
that it was his duty to see that she appeared 
before them. He turned his head aside and 
was silent. 

“My brother is in France,” she sobbed. 
“ Let me go to him ! Oh that you were any 
other man than the man you are ! Then truly 
I would implore you on my knees to help me 
to escape.” 

His hand twitched his mustache as he kept 
his face averted. 

“What will they do with me?” Her voice 
was a sob. Rising suddenly, he went towards 
his horse, and busied himself tightening the 
girths and putting the bit in the animal’s 
mouth. Once he looked back and saw her 
still on one knee, with the red light dancing on 
her figure. Of another race, and in England, 
he might dare to help her ; here she was an 
outlaw, and he and every man in the regiment 
had to see that such as she were driven across 
the Shannon and penned in between the two- 
mile lines. 

“ ’Twas a cursed mischance that brought her 
in my way,” he thought, and he looked towards 
the river with an iron resolve to do his duty. 

When he returned to the fire she stood up- 


25 


right and faced him steadily. She had wiped 
her tears away, and there was resolution and 
courage in her eyes. A faint light was spring- 
ing in the sky, the white gray of dawn touched 
the river. 

“ Sir — I do not know your name,” she be- 
gan, proudly — “ since you will bring me to 
Tuam, I must go with you, you being a man 
and the stronger.” 

There was a fine contempt in her tone, and 
they looked straight into each other’s face. 
The creeping light told him that his capture 
was fair, and her that her enemy was hand- 
some and young. Yet she only thought of 
the racial gulf between them, the blood that 
had flowed wherever he and his troopers had 
ridden, while he wondered at the darkness of 
her eyes when her hair was so fair. For a few 
seconds he did not speak. 

“ My name is Piers Ottley,” he said. “ I am a 
major of Horse. It is true when I say. Lady 
Margery, I had rather this duty had fallen to 
another man. What influence I have shall be 
used to see you are treated with consideration.” 

She bowed coldly, and, moving away, he 
stood by the bridge till a flame of pink light 
sprang up in the east, then he unpicketed his 
horse. 


II 


He led the animal up to the girl, who was 
leaning against the tree with her hands hang- 
ing by her side. She saw him put his cloak 
over the war-saddle before he turned to mount 
her. 

“ I will walk,” she said, fearing that she was 
to ride pillion. 

He made no answer, and with his hand on 
the bridle led the horse forward, passing the 
bridge, which looked too rotten to bear the 
hoofs. Margery followed him slowly, imma- 
ture plans of escape rushing through her mind. 
A quarter of a mile farther they came to a 
ford, and he halted and looked back. 

“ We must cross here,” he remarked. Her 
face grew agitated, for she thought the mo- 
ment had come when she must ride with him. 
But Ottley lifted her into the saddle, observing 
that for the present he should lead the horse. 
The next minute the water was rushing past 
his jack-boots and the animal’s hocks. The 
long, floating grasses caught in his spurs as he 


27 


waded through the stream with the eddies 
circling away in lessening paths from hoofs 
and feet. Once he threw a glance across his 
shoulder, and found that she had seized the 
moment to say a prayer on a rosary of tiny 
gold beads. He had a brief vision of lowered 
eyes and moving lips before he looked away. 
To do his duty he knew he should snatch the 
rosary from her hand ; and he was glad when, 
a minute later, he heard the beads rattle to- 
gether as she hid them in her dress. 

The sun had risen through the red light of 
the dawn as they climbed the opposite bank ; 
pearly clouds, pink-tipped, flecked the bright- 
ening blue, and the smell of flowers was in the 
air. Once beyond the patter of the river, a 
curious silence surrounded them. No birds 
sang in the thickets, or wild animals crossed 
their path. The land seemed cursed and 
blighted by a spell. 

Now and again Margery’s eyes fell on her 
companion. He was the arbiter of her fate for 
the day, and she tried to separate the soldier 
from the man. Ghosts, however, followed him ; 
pale faces, the dead of Drogheda and Wexford, 
and those to whom quarter had been denied 
in the storm of castles. Each time she shud- 
dered and looked away. 


28 


Once or twice he spoke to her, but her 
answers were so brief that they fell into silence. 
Thus they went on through woods, by bogs, 
and across broken, uncultivated ground, where 
the track of the plough and spade of five years 
back could still be seen. Roofless houses with 
blackened walls and ruined churches met them 
here and there. Once a wan -faced peasant 
crossed their path, who fled into the wood at 
the sight of the English soldier. Bodies swung 
from trees, or had fallen in mouldering heaps 
under the branches, and everywhere the fury 
of a foe and the effects of the plague might 
be traced. 

By noon they reached a wilder stretch of 
country, which showed no sign of former hab- 
itation, and entered a hollow where patches 
of moss pushed through the stunted grass. 
The slope was covered by clumps of gorse with 
blackthorn bushes growing among the furze, 
and here Ottley drew up the horse. 

In front the ground rose in a ridge, the top 
being crowned by an ancient earthwork hedged 
with a ring of hawthorn and brier. From the 
hollow nothing but the sky could be seen be- 
yond the fort. 

We shall rest here,” he said, turning and 
facing the girl. 


29 


She met his eyes, and they looked to her 
cool and hard. A fresh thought seized her; 
he was still an agent of darkness, but he was 
also human as well. Though he had no pity 
upon her, she would not be afraid, she said to 
herself, to match her wit with his. 

“Am I to alight?” she asked. 

“As you will,” he replied. 

She sat hesitating for a moment, then slid 
from the saddle, and he loosened the girth and 
removed the bit. Taking the last of the food 
from the saddle-bag, he filled her a cup of wine. 
They ate, standing side by side, in silence, while 
a lark rose close at hand out of the moss and 
set the air thrilling. Presently he glanced at 
her face, and the look it wore made him speak. 

“ You shall be provided for. I pass you my 
word,” he said, and paused lamely. The lie, 
he knew, was so evident that he felt he had 
been a fool to say anything. The color sprang 
to her face. The note of feeling struck her as 
insolence. She stood very straight, and her 
eyes grew haughty; then she moved away. 

He watched her as she slowly crossed the 
hollow and went up the ridge, and for the 
twentieth time wished himself relieved of his 
duty. If he had not met Boggas she would 
have gone to share the fate of hundreds of 


30 


women as fair as herself. The alternative he 
had brought her was grim enough. Providence 
had not dealt kindly with him in throwing 
such a task on his shoulders ; and, leaning his 
arm on the saddle, he again hardened his 
heart. 

Meanwhile hers beat in fear and indignation 
as she made her way up the slope to the fort. 
Insults were new experiences to her. Not so 
long ago she had had swordsmen enough to 
defend her with their lives ; but they were now 
among the forty thousand Irish soldiers who 
had carried their arms abroad. After a time, 
as her passion died down, she remembered the 
man -catchers. The thought of Boggas and 
his fellows made her eyes grow grave, and she 
stood hesitating for a minute at the base of 
the fort. Ottley, she knew, was still in sight. 
His sword and pistol had saved her, and would 
save her again as long as she was under his 
protection ; and she stamped her foot at the 
certainty of the fact. Then she went on, ac- 
cepting his guard, and climbed through an 
opening in the hedge. Within the circle she 
stood on the roof of caves, and the hawthorns 
ringed her round. Pagan kings had built rude 
palaces here ; and she was conscious of a vague, 
haunting feeling of dim presences as she slow- 


31 



ly crossed the mound. Below her, in the rath, 
the warriors slept each by his horse, who were 
to spring up with drawn swords when the hour 
had come. But the tramp of the Ironsides had 
not reached their ears in that deep, enchanted 
sleep. 

On the other side the ridge sloped to an 
open space of grass land, bordered on the left, 
within a hundred yards of the fort, by a deep 
wood. A bog lay to the west, sending a tongue 
of its brown heather into this grass. Margery 
crossed to the outer ring and drew back a 
branch. Hardy plans of running away from 
Ottley, of hiding in a cave, seeking the fam- 
ished peasants in the mountains, flitted through 
her brain. But the two gray shadows, the 
man-catchers and the wolves, fell ominously 
across each hope. 

As she stood looking round the wild, unpeo- 
pled land, she heard sounds coming from the 
wood, and in a moment was ready poised for 
flight — flight back to Ottley. But in another 
minute her fears lessened as she saw a body of 
men break through the undergrowth, and rec- 
ognized their dress. They formed into a 
double line, and marched half-way across the 
open ground, where they drew up, fifty men 
or more. The sunlight danced on their bare 


32 


heads and long, safifron-colored kilted garbs, 
and on a steel corselet gleaming here and 
there. She drew a long breath as her eyes ran 
down their ranks ; then her heart leaped at 
the sight. She was looking at a parade of 
the Tories, disbanded soldiers who had fought 
under Owen Roe O’Neil, with Preston, with 
•Ormond. Her father and brother had com- 
manded such men. They were her friends. 
She could see their fierce, eager faces under 
their glibbes ; she knew that for a time the 
wilds hid them, that the fate of a wolf awaited 
each man if caught. Then all in an instant 
she remembered Ottley. These men would 
think it a very sacred duty to thrust a pike 
through his body or cut his throat with a skene. 

The next second she understood why they 
had drawn up beneath the fort. A man dressed 
like a shepherd rose, as it seemed, out of the 
ground and went down to them. As he drew 
near both lines sank on their knees, and the 
few steel caps worn were thrown on the ground. 
The girl instantly knelt. 

For a few moments she tried to feel a devo- 
tional spirit, but a sword hung over the scene. 
If Ottley entered the fort he might have the 
wisdom not to interfere, but he would mark 
the place, the men, the priest, and in a day or 


33 


two bring a troop of horse to the spot. On 
the other hand, if the outlaws saw him his fate 
was sealed. 

It appeared to her their lives, and the life of 
the Ironside, lay in her hands. The latter de- 
served to die, no doubt ; the swords of him ^ 
and his fellows had been red to the hilt with i 
Irish blood, but it was not for her to betray 
him to his end. She must prevent the meeting ; , 
she must keep him in the hollow for twenty 
minutes. By that time mass would be over, 
the priest once more hidden, and the Tories in 
the wood. 

The certainty of some violent deed if she did 
not act set her wits to work. She was of the 
old Irish blood, an earl’s daughter, and though 
she feared the English troopers as devils, 
scorned them, too, in her pride of birth. Yet 
she knew she had but one power to move what 
might be left of the man in Ottley. That was 
her beauty. Up to that moment it had had 
no effect upon him. Twice his eyes had told 
her that he saw it, but his admiration had not 
made him swerve from what he thought was 
his duty. He had refused to connive at her 
escape; he was bringing her straight into the 
hands of her enemies. Her face flooded with 
color. 


3 


34 


“ I must go down to him,” she thought. 
“O God ! how I hate and scorn him !” 

She gave one more glance at the kneeling 
men, and trembled lest they should salute the 
Host.* But no shout came up the hillside, 
and she hurried across the fort. Ottley was 
still leaning against his horse. As she came 
slowly down the slope, treading her way round 
the furze, he was struck by the changed ex- 
pression of her face. Her lips seemed ready 
to smile, her eyes had softened. Pausing in 
a circle of gorse, her gaze met his across the 
hollow, and the look he read there made him 
stand suddenly erect. 

Taking his horse by the bridle, he went to 
meet her. As he drew near a faint color crept 
over her face, spreading to the roots of her 
hair, and she looked at the gorse. He paused 
outside the ring, and there was a brief interval 
of silence. Then, all in an instant, his eyes 
hardened, and, turning sharply aside, he ad- 
justed the bit. The clink of steel made her 
raise her head. 

* Formerly, as the priest raised the wafer above his 
head, the congregation bowed and cried out, “ Mile 
fdilte, Criosd na Slanaightheoir" (A thousand wel- 
comes, Christ, our Saviour). 


35 


“ I pray, sir, that I may rest yet awhile,” she 
said. 

“ Certainly,” he answered. While you wait 
here I will see what lies beyond the circle.” 

“ Wait with me,” she asked, almost in a 
whisper. 

He threw the reins over a blackthorn bush, 
and gazed straight at her across the barrier of 
gorse. Fifteen minutes before she had left his 
side in proud indignation, now her eyes smiled 
at him above the yellow blossoms. He began 
to weigh this fact and criticise; suddenly he 
found himself wishing to meet them again. 

She saw her moment’s victory, and her face 
opened like a flower. But while her lips quiv- 
ered into a smile, all her faculties were on the 
alert for any sound that might arouse his sus- 
picion. For a few seconds his gaze answered 
to hers, then he recovered himself, and began 
to move past the ring. The girl’s blood ran 
cold ; she plucked a thorny blossom and held 
it towards him. 

“ See !” she cried, “ how sweet it smells !” 

He paused and took it; a bead of blood was 
on her finger where a thorn had pierced the 
flesh. 

‘‘ ’Tis very sweet,” said Ottley, “ and the 
color of your hair — but you have hurt yourself.” 


36 


She looked down at the red drop and smiled 
again. From under her lashes she saw him put 
the flower in a button-hole. In her heart she 
said, with passion, “ All my blood would I 
give to save them. All my blood !” 

“You have changed,” he said, suddenly. 
“Were you afraid of me?” 

The corners of her lips dimpled. “ ’Twas 
only natural in a captive,” she answered. 

The words had an effect other than she in- 
tended. He remembered that to forget she 
was one of the Transplanted, and an Irish^ 
woman, might be his ruin. She saw the light, 
careless smile pass from his lips. 

A feeling of horror again seized her as he 
made a step forward. 

“Oh, sir, do not leave me!” Her voice 
thrilled with emotion. “ How do I know but 
those most evilly-minded men, the man-catch- 
ers, are near?” 

The appeal detained him for a moment, but 
his eyes were cold and controlled as he looked 
at her. She knew what the change in his 
manner meant. The cold-blooded Saxon had 
put his duty before a fair face. An icy chill 
fell on her heart. She felt driven on. 

“ Wait, wait !” she pleaded again. With a 
white face she leaned across the gorse, her hands 


37 


clasped, her eyes uplifted. Suddenly a flame 
of scarlet rushed to her cheeks, and she held up 
her lips. Ottley looked at her for a moment, 
astonishment in his gaze. Then he bent to 
take the kiss. 

Pretty one, that is not fair ! ” he ex- 
claimed, as she drew back, breaking into a 
smile. 

“Yes, yes,” she said, “most fair. If you 
wish to claim it, do so in twenty minutes. 
But you must stay there ! — there, outside this 
gorse. You must not go up to the fort ! No ! 
I am afraid of the man-catchers. Would you 
leave me alone to be carried away by them? 
Truly, that were a brave act!” 

She spoke fast, but her tone was clear with 
a music, a challenge, an appeal in it that kept 
him to the spot. He drew out his watch; if 
she had had a sword in her hand she could 
have killed him then. The sale of her lips to 
an Ironside was an unutterable sacrifice. All 
the youth went out of her eyes. 

Suddenly it struck him that she was playing 
a part. The proud girl was the real one, not 
this willing maid. There was something she 
did not wish him to know, a discovery she had 
made from the fort. He was being fooled; 
the girl’s wit was sharper than his own. He 


38 


began to regret his folly in catching fire from 
a pair of eyes and selling the moments. 

During that interval she suffered an agony 
of suspense as she listened through the singing 
of the larks. Her fancy saw the hands of the 
watch creeping forward, and again and again 
she feared the sum of the minutes was told. 
Then she blessed the ancient hill, and thanked 
the kings that had built their fort so high. 
This man’s life might go ! It was not for it 
she cared ; but he should not bring his devils 
to destroy her people ! 

Suddenly she saw him return his watch to 
his coat, and the next second he leaned across 
the gorse. Shame and appeal leaped into her 
eyes, and at the look the cool insolence in his 
instantly passed. Standing erect, he raised his 
hand in salute, and a moment later, snatching 
his pistols from the holsters, ran up the hill. 

The girl wrung her hands and broke into a 
sob. She forgot that he had spared her in her 
fear lest the time she had bought had been 
too short. Every life on the other side had 
the value of a wolf’s in his eyes, and she had 
failed to save the men. 

Leaving the ring of gorse, she knelt and 
prayed. But material fears had clutched her 
imagination, and her petition died away in 


39 


thrills of terror. Ages and seons seemed to 
pass before she heard the ring of his spurs 
coming down the springy grass ; and she sprang 
to her feet at the sound, not daring to look at 
him. 

He went straight to his horse, returned the 
pistols to the holsters, and gathered up the 
reins. As he moved about the animal she 
found courage to throw an oblique glance at 
his face. It wore an inscrutable look, and 
there was no trace of alarm in his manner. 
Her confidence returned with a bound ; she 
hoped that he had seen neither the priest nor 
the men. 

The gladness in her heart shone in her eyes ; 
but relief from the greater fear gave her time 
to think. Her cheeks grew hot, and she shook 
the loosened strands of her hair over her fore- 
head, while he led the horse across the hol- 
low. 

When he paused and looked back she walked 
forward as if signalled, and her whole frame 
trembled with shame and anger as he lifted 
her into the saddle. Neither spoke till her 
eyes fell on the flower in his button-hole. 

Give it me !” she said, imperiously, point- 
ing to the blossom. 

His hand was on the bridle-rein, and he 


40 


looked up at the pink, flushed face that showed 
through the yellow threads of hair. 

“Am I to have nothing?” he asked. 

“ Nothing, nothing !” she answered, her hand 
held out. 

He gave it, and, tearing the flower in two, 
she flung it from Her. 

The meaning of the act was plain, and he 
understood it. The incident was over; to be 
forgotten, abolished from their minds. He 
saw the curves of her lips melt into a smile of 
triumph as she looked down, but her cheeks 
were still pink as the dawn. 

They left the hollow, and she noted that he 
led the horse northward. The Tories lay be- 
hind them in the wood to the east. A shadow 
of uncertainty darkened her gladness ; and 
when, some distance farther on, he paused on 
a rise and looked back, her doubts increased. 
There was a keenness in his gaze as it swept 
the country that made her anxious. She 
longed to read his heart, to find out how much 
he knew, and every now and then, as she 
glanced at him, the youth and hardness of his 
face, as seen in profile, struck her afresh. They 
crossed level wooded ground, passing under 
great oaks, and over fields that had lain un- 
sown for four years, coming, an hour later, 


41 


upon a track that led up a wild, rock-strewn 
hill. During those sixty minutes no words 
had passed their lips. Whither he was going 
she could only vaguely guess; Tuam, he had 
told her, was their destination, but it would 
be impossible to reach it that day. When 
half-way up the hill a shout attracted their 
attention, and Ottley drew his pistol as he 
looked back. Two men on garrans were climb- 
ing the hill, whose brown, Puritan suits showed 
them to be English Adventurers. One of 
them spurred forward, bawling as he came — 
“A welcome meeting, sir!” he cried out to 
Ottley. “A right welcome meeting! Not an 
hour too soon, sir, not an hour too soon ! A 
party of your men are lying at my house. I 
pray, master officer, if it be the promise of a 
troop of horse? In truth, brave sir, our lives 
be in grievous danger.” 

“Can you give me a mount?” said Ottley, 
with a brief salute. 

The Adventurer turned to his servant. 
“Jeremy can give you his garran,” he an- 
swered. “ I will let him take pillion with me.” 

“ Why are you alarmed ?” asked Ottley, 
presently, when he had mounted, and the 
party were near the top of the ridge. 

“Alarmed! Truly at theft and murder. 


42 


Doth the Lord President know of our instant 
peril? Those damnable Tories are abroad.” 

The war-horse was abreast of the garran, 
and a treble voice exclaimed, “ Oh, sir, you 
shock me ! I thought you Puritan gentlemen 
never swore.” 

The man glanced at the travel-stained dress, 
the girl’s loosened hair, and white, smiling face. 

“ When a skene’s at your throat, mistress, 
and your beeves are carried off, a good man 
may be pardoned for dallying with Satan. 
Sir, doth the Lord President know?” 

And the girl, still acting, found the nerve 
to turn her smiling eyes on Ottley. He met 
them against his will, and his own gaze mas- 
tered hers. The reins, hanging slack in her 
hands, were suddenly tightened, and as her 
horse fell back she heard his answer. 

Sir Charles knows all that may concern 
the province,” he said, his tone cool and indif- 
ferent. 

“In case he doth not,” replied the Advent- 
urer, “ and it may be so he doth not, I will 
take the chance of your escort and go with you 
to Tuam.” 

Ottley made no reply, and the party rode 
down into the plain. An hour’s ride brought 
them to cultivated land surrounding a large 


43 


house with flanking towers. Five or six 
troopers drinking usquebaugh were lounging 
on settles by the gateway; they seized their 
arms and rose to their feet at the sound of 
hoofs, and, on seeing Ottley, saluted. 

“ What is this?” he said to the sergeant, a 
grim-looking man. 

“ An escort, sir. We were in charge of two 
munition wagons for Colonel Faire’s Foot. 
Trooper Noy did but wander a few yards off 
at a halt. We found him three hours after- 
wards, by the sun, with his throat cut and a 
pike thrust in his breast.” 

Ottley ’s face darkened. 

We brought him hither and buried him, 
and the Lord gave me words for a prayer, so 
he doth not lie like a dog. A man we caught 
— a wolf of a peasant — told us, as far as we 
could make out his tongue, that the Tories 
do daily increase. We took a bridle-rein and 
swung him up on a tree.” 

‘‘Halt here till to-morrow,” said Ottley, 
briefly, and he rode into the yard. The Ad- 
venturer was already off his horse, and clamor 
of dogs filled the place. One of the servants 
had led Margery’s horse up to the door, where 
a woman stood in the entrance. She took 
the girl’s hand as she alighted, and led her into 


44 


the house. A few words told her her posi- 
tion. 

“ Come in and rest,” she said. “ In truth, I 
did have qualms myself at sight of those we 
turned out of this house and land. But it is 
for the cleansing of the country.” 

The girl bathed and lay down and slept. In 
the stone - flagged parlor beneath her room 
Ottley sat and listened to the stories of raids 
and murders that were poured into his ear. 
He said little, though his eyes showed a keen 
attention, the coolness of his manner forming 
a contrast to the wrath and fear of the Ad- 
venturer. 

Early next morning he got his men to- 
gether, and, after a hasty breakfast, the party 
started. Margery rode a garran ; the woman 
of the house had eyed her oddly at parting, 
and asked if the major counted more years 
than his appearance warranted her in think- 
ing. The girl had answered that she did not 
concern herself with the youth or age of an 
English trooper, and had whipped up her gar- 
ran. The Adventurer accompanied the party, 
keeping, for the sake of security, close to Mar- 
gery, for three soldiers rode before her and 
three behind, the sergeant bringing up the 
rear, while Ottley headed the band. 


45 


They rode fast through a thin mist of rain. 
White shafts of light shot downward here and 
there from beneath the gray clouds, and touched 
the web-like vapor as it hung on the slopes. 
The bogs were beaded with rain-drops, and the 
mud lay deep on the track. Once, as they 
mounted a grassy upland, they came across a 
belated train of the Transplanted, whose cattle 
had stopped to graze. The men’s and women’s 
figures loomed out miserably in the fine rain 
as Ottley halted to question them. Their 
alarmed eyes followed the soldiers when they 
presently rode on ; to Margery it seemed as if 
she had looked at her own agony. 

At noon Ottley ordered a halt, and the 
party alighted and ate their rations under a 
few trees. As she saw the sergeant glance 
impatiently at her, it struck the girl that the 
halt had been called on her account. Ottley 
stood by his horse, his gloved hand on the 
saddle. He did not look in Margery’s direc- 
tion, nor did he address her. She was glad, 
not knowing that he remembered that his 
men’s eyes were upon him. The Adventurer, 
in a fever of impatience, kept staring through 
the trees, crying out now and then about an 
onfall of the Tories and the dangers of a halt. 
All their throats were in danger, he declared, 


46 


and it was madness to delay. As Ottley 
laughed at his fears, Margery saw the sergeant 
frown. 

The snares of a strange woman,” she heard 
him say, and knew his eyes were upon her. 

After an hour’s rest they mounted and rode 
forward. Evening was closing in when they 
crossed the Clare and reached the gates of the 
town. The rain had stopped, but pale cur- 
tains of mist hung in the air. The sun had 
gone down in a coppery sky, and the walls 
and roofs of the houses were dank with moist- 
ure. As the guard turned out, and strange, 
hard faces stared up at Margery, the girl 
shivered. 

The sergeant led the men to their quarters 
in the cathedral, Ottley sitting still on his 
horse till the party had filed away. Then 
he turned to the officer in charge of the 
guard. 

“ Hath Sir Charles come ?” he asked. 

A packet hath been delivered to the Com- 
mandant, wherein it is said that he will not be 
here till next week,” answered the cornet. 

Ottley glanced at Margery, who sat dumb 
and waiting in her saddle. The cornet’s eyes 
followed his. 

“This lady must be lodged,” said Ottley. 


47 


“She is the daughter of the late Earl of Fer- 
managh.” 

The cornet frowned. He was one of the 
New Model, and, as a trooper, had seen 
Naseby. “ Let her lodge at Coman’s, then,” 
he said. “ Shall I send a guard with her?” 

There was an instant’s pause, too brief for 
the cornet to notice. “ I will see her lodged 
myself,” said Ottley, as if giving an* order, and 
wheeled his horse round. The garran followed 
of its own accord, for the girl’s reins hung loose 
on its neck. She saw the frowning face of the 
old soldier raised towards her, the hard, steady 
stare of the men, and felt the shame of a cap- 
tive. When Ottley glanced at her face he saw 
it proud and set under her hat. There was 
solicitude in his tone as he spoke. “ Coman is 
a respectable woman,” he said. “ She will treat 
you well till Sir Charles can judge your case.” 

There was no reply, and they rode on in 
silence down the street till, turning a corner, 
they came to a large house built of limestone 
which stood apart from the hovels. The name 
“ Coman” was painted in red letters on the sign- 
board ; the sound of a river could be heard in 
the rear. 

“ This is the house,” he said, and alighted. 
When he turned to the girl she was already 


48 


on the ground, so, taking the lead, he entered 
the tavern, where a russet- faced, cow-eyed 
woman met them on the threshold. Ottley 
explained his errand, and they went into the 
kitchen. While he addressed the woman in a 
lowered tone the girl drew aside and leaned 
listlessly by the deep-sunk window. One or 
two of his words reached her ears. 

The woman’s answer came clear and loud. 
“Truly, I will do my best,” she said. “You 
soldiers all know that Jennet Coman hath 
never failed of her word.” 

Ottley turned to Margery; he raised his cap. 
“ I trust you will be comfortably lodged,” he 
said. 

She bowed without answering ; his presence 
filled her with shame, anger, and pain. He 
went to the door, then looked back. “ I wish 
you good-night. Lady Margery.” 

The cow-eyed woman thought, “ Doth he 
want her to look up ?” 

The girl stirred, but her eyes kept on the 
ground. “ I wish you good-night, sir — I forget 
your name.” The words came slowly, with a 
ring of fine indifference in them. 

Ottley put on his cap and went out. A sec- 
ond later the woman heard her name called 
and ran to the door. “ Oh, sir, I guessed you 


49 


would wish private speech with me,” she 
panted. “ But doubt me not, I’ll guard the 
Popish maid.” 

“ She is under the Commissioners’ charge,” 
he said, with the air of a man who thought 
nothing of his subject. “ They wish her treat- 
ed with every honor. Here is money to be 
spent upon her wants.” He held out a purse. 
*‘You will be careful to get her all that she 
needs.” 

Ah, then they will deal with her well,” said 
the woman, and looked impressed. Ottley 
caught the reins of the garran, and, swinging 
across his own horse, rode away. It was only 
as he turned the corner of the street that she 
recalled that she had' never heard of the 
Commissioners showing such generosity be- 
fore. “ Come up-stairs,” she said to the girl, 
on entering the kitchen. “ I trow you will be 
glad of food and rest.” 

As they climbed the ladder-like stair a voice 
singing shrilly suddenly filled the upper part 
of the house. 

“ What a harsh song !” murmured Margery, 
her hand dragging on the banister. 

“ ’Tis the Singing Woman,” answered Mis- 
tress Coman. “ She hath been lodging here 
two days.” 


Ill 


The latticed window in Margery’s room 
looked down on the little stream that ran 
through the town. Each day as she sat by it 
she could see the townswomen as they came 
to beat their clothes upon the stepping-stones. 
The voices of the Adventurers and the sol- 
diers often rose noisily to the joistings as they 
talked in the room below, and across the pas- 
sage the songs of the Singing Woman floated 
frequently to her ears. 

One afternoon, when she had been four days 
in the town, an unusual silence in the house 
encouraged her to leave her room. Rest and 
food had restored her nerve, and the blood ran 
like wine in her veins. Body and spirit re- 
belled against the blackness around her; her 
youth claimed its right to be glad. Some- 
where she felt that the sun shone, and she 
asked for a ray of its glory across her path. 

The silence continued as she went down the 
stair, and even the voice of the Singing Wom- 
an was still. A door that led into a room off 


51 


the kitchen stood ajar, and a ribbon of yellow- 
light streamed through. 

As she opened the door she could see across 
the room into the kitchen. Jennet Coman 
was working there, but on hearing the girl’s 
footstep she left her task and came hastily for- 
ward. Margery sank on the wide window-seat 
in the flood of the sunshine. Sweet Jennet, 
when shall I be free ?” she asked. 

The woman placed her hands on her stout 
hips and looked interrogatingly at the face 
raised towards her. Her eyes were not unkind- 
ly. ‘‘Ah, maid, I cannot tell. You are but 
a charge in my hand till the will of the Lord 
President be known.” 

The girl turned and looked out. Across the 
water, across the fields, she saw the golden 
ball of the setting sun. It was going down 
to greet the thousands of Irish slaves that la- 
bored in the fever islands, she thought. “ I 
will have joy !” she said to herself. “ I will 
die before they send me there.” — “ Do they 
mean to send me over the sea?” she said, 
aloud. 

Mistress Coman shook her head. No, my 
lady, no. You are an earl’s daughter — though 
he was but mere Irish and a Papist to boot, 
and bloody, no doubt. The Commissioners 


52 


will give you your grant. Look what grace 
they have shown you. That sober kirtle and 
white collar you wear came out of their purse.” 

Margery rose impatiently. “ I will have 
none of their grace !” she said. “ O God ! I 
would I could go to my brother.” 

She knew well that no grace would be shown 
her, that none was shown the Irish, whether 
they were of the old English blood or the na- 
tive Celt. Noblemen with their wives and 
children had to leave their homes and march 
when the order came as well as men of mean- 
er birth. She drew near the table and looked 
at Jennet. “ Help me to escape,” she said. I 
fear these soldiers.” 

“ Fear ! They have cleansed this evil land, 
which was given over to Papistry and rebel- 
lion. Tut, tut! talk not to me of escape, for 
truly I am an honest woman and fear the Com- 
missioners. It fills your head with meagrims 
to sit idle in your room. Look at these ker- 
chiefs. Put the smoothing-iron over them an 
you will.” 

“ Yes, I will,” answered Margery. “ Get me 
the iron.” 

The order amused rather than offended her. 
Her quick changes of mood had helped her to 
face with courage the very certain dangers that 


53 


now met her daily. She took the smoothing- 
iron and forgot that but a few months before 
she had been served as a queen. 

As she worked, Mistress Coman returned to 
the kitchen. In the stream a woman was beat- 
ing clothes, and the dull thud of her stick 
mingled with the patter of the water. After 
a while a party of soldiers entered the tavern 
and tramped into the inner room. They stared 
with bold, curious glances at Margery. 

‘^Ale, good Jennet, ale,” cried one, who 
wore a feather in his cap. And if you have 
any aqua vitae or usquebaugh, bring it hither 
also. We have business before us, and it will 
refresh the body.” 

“ I warrant you mean the grants,” returned 
the woman, as she put a great stone jug, a bot- 
tle, and some coarse delf mugs on the window- 
ledge. “ Is it true that your officers have 
peeled you fools bare ?” 

Truly they have taken us at a disadvantage 
and looked to their own profit. Being for the 
most part men of substance, they could bear 
to wait for the payment of their arrears, while 
we rank and file were driven to sell our grants 
for a song. Major Ormsby hath the stomach 
of a cormorant, and I doubt not that the ser- 
geant we meet here anon be his agent.” 


54 


“ Well, well, you be fools !” said Mistress 
Coman, and went back to the kitchen. 

Margery continued her work without look- 
ing up, feeling indifferent to the men. While 
they smoked and drank and eyed her, she was 
conscious of no common link of humanity be- 
tween herself and them. 

“ Your hands take not a natural grip of the 
iron, wench,” one of the soldiers presently re- 
marked. 

She looked up for a second. The gulf of 
rank, race, religion, separated her from the 
speaker. “ Oh, I hold it well enough,” she an- 
swered, in a tone of absolute indifference. 

The man leaned forward with his arms on 
his knees. 

“ Look at us again, maid,” he said, gazing 
straight into her face. “ How comes it that 
your eyes are black when your hair is yellow ?” 

“ Leave the wench alone,” growled a bullet- 
headed, solemn-looking man. “ We have come 
here for business, not for dalliance.” 

“Trooper Pumcry hath a carnal spirit,” put 
in another soldier. “ I warn you, young man, 
that your feet draw near to the pit when you 
give word and retort to a wanton Popish dam- 
sel. We spared not such as she at the Cross 
of Wexford.” 


55 


I was not there,” said the young trooper. 
“ I have no stomach for killing women.” 

Margery’s hand left the iron and she stood 
upright. The men’s words recalled her to the 
dark certainties of her life. A look of horror 
and aversion sprang into her eyes. She turned 
to leave the room. 

“ I cry your pardon, mistress,” called out 
the trooper. “ I did not know you were the 
Irish earl’s daughter whom my major took 
from the man-catchers. Ton my soul I thought 
you were Jennet’s niece. My words were free, 
but there was no offence meant.” 

She paused and faced the soldiers. “Your 
words, man, were nothing to me.” Her voice 
was low but distinct. “I pardon your igno- 
rance; but it is these men, your fellows, whom 
I loathe to look upon.” 

“And wherefore, woman?” demanded the 
bullet-headed man. “ I doubt not but you 
are a true daughter of the whore of Babylon.” 

“ I loathe you because, in the name of God, 
you have murdered my people ! Because I 
remember Tredagh and Wexford !” 

The man’s hand went to his sword and he 
half rose. Pumcry stretched out his arm. 
“ No, no,” he said; “would you strike a wom- 
an for her words? Mistress, if you wish to 


56 


stay, stay. I can hold Private Grimshaw in 
ward so that he treat my major’s captive with 
due respect.” 

She had laid her hand on the handle of the 
door, and felt that some one else had taken it 
on the outside. It was thrust back, and a 
quiver ran through her body as she saw the 
new-comer. He looked at her without surprise 
or recognition, while the soldiers burst into a 
storm of greeting. 

“ Ha, my brave sergeant ! here we are, ready 
to be plucked. Come forward ! come forward ! 
Whose purse do you carry? Major Ormsby’s? 
By my soul, he will pocket the province.” 

“ It is laid on my mind,” exclaimed Private 
Grimshaw, “ that this be a matter wherein we 
should ask the guidance of Heaven. Let us 
cast lots that we may know whose voice shall 
be lifted up.”' 

“Not Boggas!” cried out Pumcry. “He is 
a damnable thief, and will not give us more 
than two-and-six an acre.” 

The new-comer advanced up the room, pass- 
ing Margery without a glance. “ Young man,” 
he said, looking at the trooper, “ I call you to 
order. Colonel Axtell, in whose Foot I carried 
a musket, would have made you ride the wood- 
en horse for a slighter word.” 


57 


“Ah, he was a brave man,” sneered the 
trooper. “ He ordered his men to fire into 
the women’s gallery at the trial of Charles 
Stuart. I am of a mind you were not there, 
for no one obeyed him.” 

“ Silence !” cried the bullet-headed man. “ I 
will take what fair price Sergeant Boggas may 
offer. I have no stomach to drain, and till, 
and sow, and cut down forestry in this most 
accursed land. Nay, my soul yearns for the 
peace and plenty of my native Sussex.” 

Margery hurried from the room, not daring 
to look back. She felt Boggas’s eyes upon 
her. As she went up the stair she began to 
wonder what the man had been doing in the 
house. He had entered the room by the in- 
ner door, not by the kitchen, and must there- 
fore have been already in the tavern. Her 
heart beat fast, but though his unexpected 
presence frightened her, she knew that she had 
no real cause for alarm. She was under Jennet’s 
charge, and he dared not kidnap her. That 
hard-eyed young major, too, no doubt would 
prevent his carrying out any evil design. 

Near the last step of the stair she suddenly 
heard the shrill song of the Singing Woman. 
Mistress Hunnings’s room looked out on the 
street, and lay down the passage. Jennet had 


58 


told the girl that in her youth the Singing 
Woman had been famous for her voice, and 
had sung before King James. She sang still, 
though all her notes were cracked, because the 
habit had become so strong. Margery, who 
was accustomed to her singing, took no heed 
of her song as she lingered on the stair. All 
her thoughts dwelt upon Boggas. 

Presently the harsh notes ceased, softly slip- 
pered feet came down the passage, then a fig- 
ure stole round the corner. The girl looked 
up to see a tall old woman staring at her, who 
held herself as straight as a girl in her teens. 
Her iron-gray hair was smoothed under a close- 
fitting white cap , her level, penetrating eyes 
had the power of youth. 

Come on ! come on !” she called out, as 
Margery stopped short on the step. 

“Your song has ended,” said the girl. “ Give 
me the favor of hearing it again.” She went 
up as she spoke ; the graciousness of a great 
lady came into her manner. 

The woman drew back, retreating slowly 
down the passage, staring all the while. 

“ I sang before a king once, daughter of a 
savage, bloody Irish earl,” she answered, “ but 
it may be I shall find a song for you yet,” and 
she went into her room, slamming the door 


59 


behind her, leaving Margery with a vague feel- 
ing of alarm. The girl ran to her own apart- 
ment and looked out of the window. 

The stick still fell in rhythmical beats on the 
clothes, answered by a soft echo. The washer- 
woman’s brown kirtle and saffron-colored pet- 
ticoat could be seen as her long cloak swung 
back. As Margery leaned over the sill she 
broke into a song in Gaelic, keeping time to 
her words with every stroke of her stick : 

“ To the daughter of the race of Conn, 

To the Chiefs daughter. 

Oh, maid with hair like the sun. 

With the eyes of power. 

There's black grief on the plain. 

And death in the house on the Robe — 

The house stolen from a true child of Co7inacht." 

Suddenly the woman raised her eyes to the 
window and repeated slowly : 

“ To the Chief's daughter." 

The next second the lattice beneath was 
flung wide, and one of the soldiers roared out: 
“Take your clothes and your song away, 
you hellicate witch ! Begone ! and pollute 
not our ears with thy salvage language, sing- 
ing chants to Satan.” 


6o 


In a trice the singer gathered up her linen, 
and, without another glance at Margery, waded 
through the water and went up the bank. 

It was a message, but the interpretation was 
not clear. There was danger around her, the 
girl saw, but how great she could not guess. 
Her fears now dwelt on the sentence the ruth- 
less Lord President might give. As she stood 
by the window she felt an imperious need that 
her youth should have its rights. Yet every 
outlook showed those rights denied. There 
was one hope left, and she set it before her as 
a star. The Irish held their rendezvous at 
Brest, and if she could escape she would find 
kind hearts there. A warm glow of courage 
seized her as she determined to make the 
attempt. 

The next day she spoke to Jennet when the 
woman brought her her meal. “ Hath your 
Lord President come ?” she asked. 

Each day she had put this question, and 
each day the tavern-keeper had answered, “ He 
hath not.” But to-day Jennet said : “ He will 
be here come a Wednesday. Truly he will give 
righteous judgment, have no fear.” 

The soldiers were quartered in the cathedral 
built by Turlough, the king. They had broken 


6i 


the great Cross of O’Hoissin, the abbot, and 
defaced the walls of the chancel, stabling their 
horses under Turlough’s triumphal arch. Their 
officers were lodged for the most part in the 
priory of St. John the Baptist ; and there, one 
rainy morning, men belonging to horse and 
foot were gathered in what had been the re- 
fectory of the canons regular. A long table 
ran down the middle of the room ; benches 
and chairs were ranged before it and round the » 
walls. Three deep Gothic windows lighted the 
place. Sword-belts, bandeliers, and arms hung 
from numerous racks. Four or five men with 
attentive faces were leaning forward on a bench 
by one of the recesses, listening to an officer, 
who, with an open Bible in his hand, was ex- 
pounding from Joshua. Another group of 
men stood farther down by the arched door- 
way leading into the hall. Ottley was among 
this party. Alert, handsome, and well-ordered, 
he leaned by the arch, his eyes almost insolent 
in their indifference as he turned them upon 
the officer nearest to him. 

“ Do you still hold to your purpose to make 
this report. Major Ottley ?” this man asked, 
with sudden abruptness. He looked over 
forty, and had severe, dark eyes, dilated nos- 
trils, and carried his sword-arm in a sling. 


62 


The reply was instantly given with decision. 
“Yes, Major Ormsby.” 

“ Then, young man, yours is a fool’s errand. 
This soldier hath got his discharge, and hath 
gone to take up his grant.” 

He passed through the archway, beckoning 
Ottley to follow. After a moment’s hesitation 
the latter obeyed, his long sword clanking on 
the flags as he went out. The door at the end 
of the hall opened on the street, and a number 
of persons were to be seen gathered near the 
entrance, before which a sentry paced. 

The senior officer drew up. 

“ Major Ottley,” he said, lowering his voice, 
“ believe me, this is a matter wherein caution 
is necessary. Sir Charles himself hath bought 
up many grants. This man, Boggas, is a val- 
uable agent and knows how to get the soldiery 
to part with theirs at a low price. Moreover ” 
— here the officer straightened himself — “I 
can answer for his character. He is a man of 
godly repute, a keen swordsman, and was not 
slack in the avenging of the massacred Protes- 
tants at Tredagh and Wexford.” 

Ottley’s face was rigid, his eyes inflexible. 
“The matter is out of my hands,” he said, 
with a cold unconcern. “ I made my report 
to Colonel Hewson an hour after my arrival 


63 


in the town. By this time Sir Charles has 
heard it.” 

The elder man smiled grimly as Ottley 
turned away, and his strident voice followed him 
down the hall. “ A word, sir !” he said, in a loud, 
distinct tone. “ I would give you a caution. 
You are twenty-seven, and I am thirteen years 
your senior. We are here to do the work of 
the Lord, and to slay and spare not. He that 
went after Ashtaroth hid not his sin, for the 
God of vengeance found him and he died by 
the death of stones. Wherefore I would warn 
you.” 

Ottley wheeled round, and his eyes looked 
with cold defiance straight at the major. Then 
his glance fell on the latter’s disabled sword- 
hand. The gaze was significant, and the elder 
officer, with an angry frown, moved away. 
Ottley walked towards the archway and re- 
joined the group in the refectory. 

A lean little man with shrewd eyes grasped 
his arm. He held up three papers. “ What do 
you say to that, lad?” he cried. “ Five hun- 
dred acres of arable land for twenty pounds.” 

Several envious eyes fell on the papers. 
“ God damn you, Tipland ! how did you get 
them ?” said a hawk-eyed captain with a large 
stomach. He was a Coote’s man, and not 


64 


so afraid of an oath as Cromwell’s soldiers 
were. 

‘‘ Through my trade,” laughed the little man. 

I had cured three fellows of Stubber’s Foot 
of shrewd wounds. I spoke a while of Eng- 
land to them, and made them homesick, and 
they thanked me for buying their grants.” 

The men’s eyes still rested longingly on the 
papers. Ottley moved away. 

“ Major, major,” continued the little surgeon, 
“ what is the maid like that hath to answer 
Sir Charles to-day for not transplanting?” His 
eyes twinkled, for he was a man who loved a 
joke and good drink, but he had got into the 
wrong army. 

Ottley’s face was inscrutable. He stood, 
looking handsome and well-bred, apart from 
the surgeon. The other officers glanced at 
him, but without suspicion. It did not enter 
their minds that he could admire the girl. To 
do that they knew would bring him perilously 
near his ruin. The only interest they felt in 
the case was the point that she was destitute, 
and thus liable to be sent as a vagrant to New 
England or Barbadoes. Those of a graver 
mind looked upon this as a judgment of God, 
for her father had been a noted leader of the 
Irish forces. 


65 


“ Fair is she, or dark ?” went on the lean Tip- 
land. “ Cornet Salt, whom I questioned, hath 
the eye of an owl when it blinks in the day.” 

Sir,” said one of the officers, gravely, “ it 
matters not whether she is fair or ill-favored. 
Whatever her body may be, doubt not her 
mind is given over to idolatry and the devil.” 

“These Irishwomen are as forbidden to us 
as were the daughters of the Canaanites to the 
Chosen People,” observed a young man, play- 
ing with the hilt of his straight cut-and-thrust 
sword. 

“ It is a pity they are so fair,” said Tipland. 
“As Captain Williamson found to his ruin at 
Clonmel.” 

“ Captain Williamson gave place to the 
devil,” answered the first officer, sternly. “ He 
was found guilty of a damnable intrigue by 
worthy Colonel Solomon Richards and a board 
of officers, and so finished his career. Truly, 
we walk in slippery places. Let this man’s end 
be a warning to us.” 

“ I need no such warning,” returned the 
young officer. “ My mind runs not on Irish 
Popish women.” 

“And you. Major Ottley?” grinned little 
Tipland. “Your words have a carnal savor, 
sir,” came in stern rebuke from the serious 


5 


66 


man. Ottley’s eyes rested for a moment with 
a cold, repellent air on the surgeon’s face. 
The grin faded away. “ But they are human,” 
the little doctor muttered, under his breath. 

Just then a small, deep-sunk door at the 
upper end of the room opened with a harsh 
noise on its hinges, and two men came out. 
All the ofificers who had been sitting rose to 
their feet ; the expounder closed his Bible, and 
every man’s hand was raised in salute. The 
foremost of the new-comers returned the salute, 
and, striding down the room with the clanking 
accompaniment of steel, seated himself at the 
head of the table. His companion took the 
chair on his right, and Major Ormsby, who had 
Ke-entered the refectory, placed himself on the 
Left. 

At that moment an orderly approached 
Ottley and told him that one without wished 
to speak to him. He followed the man into 
the hall, which was now full of officers and 
settlers, and saw the Adventurer talking with 
much heat to an officer, who was listening with 
the air of a man who is separating the sense 
from the folly in the words he hears. 

On seeing Ottley, the Adventurer broke off 
in his harangue and darted up to him. “ Ha, 
my brave friend !” he cried, seizing his hand. 


67 


the Lord President seated? I burn to 
lay my case before him. You can testify that 
I am forced to barn my cattle, and that I and 
my wife live in daily peril from the skenes 
of these ferocious Tories. For aught I know, 
my beeves have been raided since I came 
hither.’^ 

Ottley pointed with official calmness to the 
archway. “ Stand there,” he said ; “ you will 
presently be called.” 

The man hurried forward, breaking into 
agitated, disjointed sentences. 

The officer to whom he had been speaking 
turned to Ottley. He had a young, pleasant 
face. “ I made your suggestion to Colonel 
Hewson,” he said, slightly lowering his voice. 
“ I did not say it came from you. I spoke of 
the plan as if casually at supper last night. 
He would not listen to it.” 

Ottley returned the aide-de-camp’s gaze with 
perfectly controlled eyes. “ It would be a fair 
way out of the difficulty,” he remarked. 

“ Possibly. But the colonel thought not. 
He sat very straight in his chair and looked 
me through with a piercing glance. ‘Young 
man,’ he said, ‘ if I had a daughter I would 
sooner she were dead than sent to the hell of 
Charles Stuart’s court. Mere Irish and Papist 


68 


as this maid is, I will not have it on my soul 
that my word made her a prince’s leman.’ ” 

“ It was to her brother, not to the court, I 
wished her to be sent,” replied Ottley. “ But 
no doubt the Commandant knows what is 
right.” 

Some officers came up as he spoke, and the 
conversation dropped. Suddenly the men 
who were facing the street paused in their 
talk, and a stir ran through the group. 

A shower of rain was falling, and the wind 
drove it in oblique, liquid lines past the open 
door. By the sentinel, out of the shower, a 
girl was coming. The men’s eyes fastened 
upon her. As she crossed the threshold a 
scarlet color rushed to her face, but there were 
dignity and courage in her air. The heavy 
figure of the tavern-keeper followed her a yard 
in the rear. Midway in the hall Margery 
paused, her heart fluttering like a bird just 
caged. Not a man among those who gazed at 
her spoke or stirred. The silence lasted a few 
moments; then a metallic sound broke the 
pause as Ottley left the group and went tow- 
ards the girl. 

He saw the quick look of alarm that sprang 
to her eyes, which told him that even in that 
hour of her helplessness and humiliation he 


69 


was not — could never be — her friend. More- 
over, he was aware that his figure and hers 
were the points towards which a dozen eyes 
were drawn, and he drew up suddenly a yard 
from where she stood. 

^‘Your case will be judged immediately. 
Lady Margery,” he said, his hand raised in 
salute. “ May I ask you to follow me?” 

His manner was official, his voice even. 
Without raising her eyes she obeyed and went 
up the hall. The shame and bitterness of the 
moment flooded and drowned every other 
thought. The degradation of having to stand 
before a military tribunal was an intolerable 
outrage. What right had these men to cut 
out a path for her, to order her life? In the 
passionate protest of her soul against their 
claim to the disposal of her body, she dimly 
knew that, lower than this depth, lay a still 
deeper abyss. Her eyes looked out on a hori- 
zon where impenetrable clouds rolled down to 
meet her youth. She had the fatal, accursed 
Celtic blood running, unmixed, in her veins; 
and these men were here to root out and 
destroy her race. 

Ottley paused by the archway and looked 
back. Then he turned to the officer on duty 
and gave Margery into his charge. He was a 


70 


Coote’s man, and had done bloody work in 
Wicklow under the old Sir Charles. 

“ Follow me, you women !” he said, harshly, 
and clanked and jingled into the refectory. 

The order reached Margery’s ears without 
giving her any added sense of insult. No 
coarseness or brutality could make the mo- 
ment more terrible. She looked up the room 
to where the Lord President sat in buff coat 
and steel corselet, his cropped head covered 
with a wide hat with a single feather. His 
stern, forbidding face turned upon her, she 
thought. In reality, his attention was given 
to the Adventurer, who was telling a story of 
murder and raids. The Coote’s man stopped 
and held up his hand, without glancing back, 
as a sign that she and Jennet were to pause. 
The sudden cessation of jingling steel behind 
them told her that Ottley had halted, too. 

Sir Charles’s eyes glowed like coals as the 
Adventurer went on. Once or twice he turned 
and glared at his officers, while the veins 
swelled on his forehead. 

“This is truly a most monstrous business!” 
he exclaimed as the man paused, more from 
lack of breath than of matter. “ I am told that 
Major Ottley hath seen and marked the nest 
of these pestilent Irish knaves.” 


71 


The words reached Margery’s ears with 
terrible distinctness. The scene on the hillside 
flashed before her again, and she clenched her 
right hand as it hung by her side. A question 
passed through Ottley’s mind as he saw the 
action. Had she given one thought to his life 
as well as to those of the priest and the outlaws 
when she had held up her lips from the ring of 
gorse? The next second he was called forward. 

He told his story briefly and with point, 
while the girl listened through a tumult of 
emotions. Fifty men had been present at the 
mass held in the open country, men armed 
and with all the appearance of outlaws. The 
priest was a tall man with a commanding pres- 
ence, dressed as a shepherd. The spot lay 
north of the Robe, perhaps thirty English 
miles from the town. 

Take a troop of horse,” cried Sir Charles, 
“ and cut down and hang the gang !” 

The Adventurer sprang forward. “ I pray 
you, my Lord President,” he called out, turn- 
ing pale — “ I pray you, let the thing be done 
with thoroughness. These Tories have gath- 
ered to the number of hundreds in the woods. 
A troop of horse is but a small force for the 
onfall.” 

“ Tut, tut, man ! you have a white liver,” re- 


72 


turned Sir Charles, harshly. “ The Ironsides 
make quick work of these salvage Irish. Major 
Ottley, lead your men out by sundown and 
give quarter to none, neither to woman nor 
child. Bring me the priest, if you take him, so 
that I make a swift example of him before the 
people.” 

The Adventurer’s lips opened, but a frown 
silenced him. 

“ Master Lucas, I have no time to spend 
further on your affairs,” was the sharp rebuke. 
“ The loss of your beeves and the killing of 
your servants is a matter that the Commis- 
sioners may digest. For myself, I have the 
order of this ill province to maintain. Cap- 
tain Bradock, bring up the woman who is 
charged with not transplanting.” 


IV 


She walked up the room at the captain’s 
harsh command, and stood silently before the 
battery of eyes turned upon her. Nearly every 
man there harbored a devil of land-greed in 
his heart ; but to each, as he gazed, she ap- 
peared the fair embodiment of evil, a danger 
and temptation to be rigorously withstood. 
Here and there among that group a man 
played with his soul, let what was human look 
from his eyes. To the grave-faced colonel sit- 
ting on Sir Charles’s right, and one or two 
younger hearts, it suddenly seemed that the 
girl had a claim to pity. 

As a support from her own sex, among so 
many men, she had the sturdy Jennet, who 
stood behind her, courtesying low. But Mar- 
gery for the moment felt sexless. All the 
deeps in her soul had been stirred. Past, 
future, and present became as one. Events 
were rushing down to crush her, but she was 
indifferent to her fate. Her spirit felt sink- 
ing with the wreck of all things. It was the 


74 


anguished, passing mood of the Celt, who 
touches so often, by the curse and blessing 
of his race, the depths and the heights of 
life. 

She heard Ottley asked for his statement, and 
was aware that he placed himself a few feet 
from her side, without either resenting or car- 
ing for the fact. Sir Charles held the Trans- 
planter’s Certificate in his hand, but his eyes 
dwelt on the major’s face. On the left she 
noted that a dark, middle-aged man drummed 
with the fingers of his left hand on the table. 
Then, with a leap, the full meaning of her posi- 
tion sprang upon her like a wolf at her throat. 
Large tears of shame and anger rushed to her 
eyes. 

“ And this soldier — this fellow Boggas — 
where is he ?” demanded Sir Charles. 

The dark officer stopped drumming, arid 
looked up. He had got his discharge. Sir 
Charles, and hath been gone this week to take 
up his grant in the county of Meath,” he said. 
“ If I may now speak to what I know. Major 
Ottley hath prejudiced this man without hear- 
ing his case.” 

“Yet clearly he stole this lady,” put in the 
colonel, abruptly. “ The certificate bears evi- 
dence to that.” 


75 


^‘The trade is allowed,” said Sir Charles, 
grimly. 

Every one present knew that this was true. 
It was necessary for the cleansing of the land 
that the native Irish should be transplanted 
into the wilds of Connaught or sold as slaves. 
Colonel Stubbers, governor of Galway, had 
shipped a thousand abroad. The Commis- 
sioners themselves had contracted with Bristol 
merchants for both men and women. The 
Lord Protector ordered and encouraged the 
trade. 

“ But here,” continued the colonel, “ we have 
a lady, in no way a vagrant, the daughter of an 
earl, who, while on her way to her grandfather s 
grant in Erris, hath been kidnapped by this 
man.” 

Sir Charles turned his lowering face on the 
girl. The elder Coote had allowed his soldiers 
to toss Irish babies on their bayonets for sport, 
and the old man’s savagery had come out in 
the son. 

I care not, neither have I ever cared, for 
these Irish salvage lords!” he cried. “That 
this woman should be the daughter of a Pa- 
pist rebel who joined the Kilkenny Confeder- 
ation and was a lieutenant of Owen Roe O’Neil, 
and is now the sister of an outlaw, doth not, 


76 


to my mind, improve her case. Major Ottley’s 
evidence goes no further than that he took 
her from the said Boggas at a wicker bridge 
some miles beyond the Mayo border. Ma- 
jor Ormsby hath more knowledge of this 
matter, and I command that he lay it be- 
fore us.” 

The dark man rose to his feet with ill-sup- 
pressed eagerness. His voice was harsh, but 
cool, as he spoke. The man Boggas had been 
known to him since ’49. He was a brave and 
God-fearing soldier, whose sword had not been 
sheathed till long past the setting of the sun 
at Tredagh and Wexford. At Clonmel he 
had been foremost in the first onslaught, and 
failed not afterwards. So much for his char- 
acter. As to the charge that he had kid- 
napped the woman, that was a manifest lie. 
He had found her beyond the Shannon, whith- 
er she had fled while on her way to Erris. The 
Lord President and the officers now gathered 
to the hearing of this case knew that, had he 
chosen, he might have killed her, death being 
the penalty for not transplanting. Instead of 
resorting to so extreme a rigor, he had shown 
her mercy. He had brought her with him in 
order that she might answer for her fault to 
the Loughrea Commissioners. Major Ottley 


77 


had chanced upon him when he was upon his 
way to the town. 

Here the colonel interrupted. “ How had 
he gone so out of his road as to be found 
beyond the Mayo border?” 

The fear of the Tories led him north in- 
stead of south,” answered the dark-faced officer. 

“ Major Ottley hath stated that he had a 
companion. Is aught known of this man ?” 

There was a pause for a moment, but no 
one had heard or knew anything of the latter. 
The description Ottley gave of his appearance 
showed that he was probably one of the Eng- 
lish Adventurers. The colonel leaned forward 
and whispered to Sir Charles. 

After listening to him with sour attention 
for a few moments, the Lord President raised 
his head and looked at Margery. His piercing 
gaze searched her face. 

'‘Attend to me,” he said, coldly. “Your 
word hath little weight; nevertheless, that none 
shall say that I have failed in justice in this 
inquiry, I will question you. Is it true, Lady 
Margery, that you recrossed the Shannon, know- 
ing well that by so doing you forfeited your 
life ?” 

The law of life forfeiture did not come into 
effect till the ist of May. It was now April, 


78 


but to the Lord President a few days’ differ- 
ence in point of time was of no importance. 

The girl held herself erect, but her eyes were 
lowered. She had recovered command over 
her fears ; her pride became a strength to her. 
“ No, Sir Charles,” she said, without a quaver; 
and the sudden notes of her young treble 
voice gave Ottley an unlooked-for sensation. 
It was as if a beam of sunlight had cut the 
gloom of the refectory and a bar of music had 
been played. The next instant he was afraid 
of his own sensation. 

“Your idolatrous religion allows you to lie, 
whereby I cannot heed your denial,” returned 
Sir Charles, with a sudden access of sternness. 
“ Nevertheless, I will further put a question to 
you. Where and how did this man Boggas 
find you ?” 

Margery raised her eyes; every man’s gaze 
but Ottley ’s dwelt upon her. He looked 
steadily through the nearest window, where the 
rain swept by the unglazed bars, falling in great 
drops on the wall and floor of the deep embra- 
sure. “I was with the Transplanted,” she be- 
gan, and the dignity and appeal that shone in 
her eyes rang in her tone — “ I was with them, 
and I fainted ; and after a time, when I had 
recovered, two men came upon me, and, gag- 


79 


ging my mouth, took me with them. Then ” 
— her voice was curiously steady — “ then that 
officer there found me.” Her hand pointed 
towards Ottley, but her eyes dwelt on the 
Lord President’s face. 

The ring of truth in her tone — or perhaps 
the beauty of her hair and eyes — began to 
convince and soften some hearts present. Yet 
no man knew of any mercy that could be 
shown her, unless it were the right to starve in 
the wilds of Erris. Sir Charles, however, kept 
in mind the petition sent to the Commis- 
sioners by the officers of the English army in 
Ireland — a petition that the native Irish be [ 
dealt with summarily, else if mercy be shown | 
them, would not the Lord'^he angry with us, 
having said, “ The land ye go to possess is an 
unclean land, because of the people that dwell 
therein. Nay, ye shall surely root them out be- 
fore you I' 

He broke the pause that followed her words. 

I must ingenuously acknowledge that this 
lady lies well,” he said, with stern gravity. “ I 
am not of a mind. Colonel Hewson, to place 
her word before that of a proved soldier, for 
whose honesty Major Ormsby stands surety.” 

But as he spoke a stir was heard without in 
the hall, and Captain Bradock was seen to 


8o 


parley through the archway with an officer. 
Then he strode up the room and reported that 
Cornet Hold-Fast-the-Lord Salt asked per- 
mission to make a statement. 

“ Bring him in/* said Sir Charles. “ Cornet 
Salt is a man who reddened his sword at 
Naseby.” 

A gaunt, grizzly-haired soldier, with a purple 
scar on his brown, leather-like face, came into 
the refectory, and clanked up the flagged floor. 

“What have you to report. Cornet Salt ?” 

“Truly, Sir Charles, the testimony of what 
I saw, the matter of which I would state. Ten 
days ago I, with a party of Horse, saw to the 
removal of the Transplanted. This woman 
hath not lied — though doubtless lies be familiar 
to her soul as to all these bloody-minded Irish 
savages. I, with my men, came upon her 
where she had fallen down in the rear of the 
Transplanted, and, thinking her dead, we left 
her to the wolves.’* 

Sir Charles looked grimly down the board. 
The dark officer leaned his uninjured hand 
heavily on the table, and stared across the 
room. 

“ How do you look at this matter. Colonel 
Hewson ?” 

The answer was prompt and emphatic. 


8i 


“ My opinion, Sir Charles, hath not wavered 
since I learned that this fellow Boggas, who, 
setting out from Athlone for Loughrea, was 
found by Major Ottley in the county of Mayo. 
Cornet Salt’s report gives but proof to my con- 
viction.” 

Major Ormsby,” said Sir Charles, brusquely, 
you have been deceived by this fellow.” 

Major Ormsby made no reply; his dilated 
nostrils widened still farther. 

This business may then be disposed of brief- 
ly,” went on Sir Charles. “ The charge of not 
transplanting being unproven, there only re- 
mains to declare what settlement shall be made 
for this woman who is the daughter of a rebel, 
of native Irish blood, and the sister of an out- 
law. Therefore, for the good government of 
this country of Ireland, I accordingly command 
that, till such time as the Commissioners may 
terminate, the Lady Margery Maguire be given 
into the keeping of a sober and godly English- 
woman known to Major Ormsby, who hath 
residence some miles hence on her son’s grant 
of land. Whereby you. Jennet Coman, now 
in charge of Lady Margery, shall lead her 
hence, and duly deliver her into the keeping 
of Mistress Runnings; and let Mistress Run- 
nings take her forthwith to her son’s grant, and 

6 


82 


hold her in ward till the Commissioners shall 
demand her person. Captain Bradock, show 
the women forth.” 

The Coote’s man stepped forward. “.Come !” 
he said, rudely, and sharply tapped the courte- 
sying Jennet on the shoulder. His big gaunt- 
leted hand swung round towards Margery, 
who shrank back. Ottley raised a warding 
arm, and a deep-toned voice called from the 
table : 

“ More gently, sirrah ! You are dealing with 
a lady of quality !” 

Jennet caught her sleeve and drew her away, 
whispering, as they went down the room, that 
the worst was over. Ottley's eyes followed 
their retreating figures till they left the refec- 
tory ; then as he glanced across the table he 
met the fixed, sinister gaze of the dark officer. 

The rain was no longer falling when Jennet 
and the girl reached the street. Here and 
there the black, sullen clouds had parted, show- 
ing the gray-blue sky behind. The water ran 
in channels through the muddy streets, and 
the slush rose to the ankles. Near the tavern 
a spectre of a form stole from the ruins of a 
house and sighed out a blessing in Gaelic. 
The girl’s heart stirred at the words. She ex- 
perienced a sudden sense of relief, of comfort ; 


83 


the sound of the familiar language, the knowl- 
edge that her race remembered her, renewed 
her courage and gave her hope. 

When she reached the tavern, three man- 
servants were holding five horses before the 
door. Mistress Runnings stood on the thresh- 
old, a brown cloak over her shoulders, a stee- 
ple - shaped hat on her cap. Her complete 
preparation for a journey startled Margery. 
“ You have heard,” she said, haughtily. 

“A bird flew hither to me,” was the answer. 
“ Get your things together, mistress, and come.” 

“ Hoity, toity !” cried Jennet. “Are the 
wild Irish breaking into town, that you run 
away in this fashion ? I vow Lady Margery 
shall break her fast first before she is off and 
away with you. Singing Woman.” 

“ The road is long and the night will be 
dark,” answered Mistress Runnings. “ Let 
her feed fast, then.” 

“ By your leave, make room for us to pass,” 
said Jennet, “and we’ll try to pleasure you.” 

They entered the kitchen, and, while Mar- 
gery ate. Jennet tied the few things the girl 
possessed — and which Ottley’s money had 
bought — into a bundle. In the interval the 
Singing Woman’s voice came harshly from the 
door. “ Fools! Fools!” she cried to her ser- 


84 


vants, draw the girths tighter or FIl clout 
your cobbes !” 

The girl finished her meal and went out ; 
on the threshold she gave her hand to Jen- 
net. 

Good-bye,” she said, bravely. “ When my 
brother, the Earl of Fermanagh, comes back 
with the King, then I shall reward you as his 
sister should.” 

The Singing Woman turned slowly, and 
stared without speech at her for a moment. 
“ The King with his harlots will not be back 
for a many days,” she said, presently. “Your 
beauty will have faded by then, mistress.” 

Jennet flung up her hands. “ Now God de- 
fend us!” she cried, “from the Young Man 
and his women. Noll hath too firm a hold.” 

“ Till the nation cry out for the joy of sin 
— till then — not longer,” said the Singing 
Woman. “Get up, get up, mistress; the way 
leads far, and the Tories are abroad.” 

She beckoned to one of the men, who helped 
Margery into the saddle. As the party rode 
down the street the girl looked westward with 
steady, brave eyes. She was confident that 
she would find friends in the mountains who 
would help her to escape. The sentence had 
been given and the uncertainty of the past 


85 


days was over. She felt as if the door of hope 
was widening fast. 

Four hours later Ottley rode out of the town. 
One hundred swords followed him, every man 
carrying The Souldiers Pocket Bible buttoned 
under his coat ; every mind was filled with 
grim thoughts of slaughter, every trooper be- 
lieved that he was about to do the work of 
God. 

The men went up the road or track leading 
northwest at the trot till they saw the Clare 
winding before them through the plain. A 
mile beyond the river they halted to examine 
their saddlery and draw girths. The sky was 
black, but one yellow arm of light lay low tow- 
ards the horizon. As Ottley raised his saddle- 
flap, something white, like a large moth, flut- 
tered to the ground. He picked it up and 
looked at it in the fading gleam. A jagged 
bit of linen with five words traced upon it 
lay in his hand. For a moment he stared at 
the lettering before he turned swiftly to his 
men. “Who saddled my charger? You, 
Lane ?” he called out. 

The man, his servant, stepped forward. “ In 
truth, sir, I put strap in buckle with a careful 
eye for our onset,” he answered. 


86 


‘‘ What others were in the stable ?” 

“ I was alone, sir.” 

“ Did you see any one about ?” 

“ One of the native Irish ventured within. 
I kicked him forth, striking him low with a 
broom.” 

The three officers, the captain, lieutenant, 
and Cornet Salt, came up as the trooper spoke. 
Behind them trotted Surgeon Tipland, bawl- 
ing out to know if any man had met with a 
mischance. 

“ What hath happened ?” asked the captain. 

“ A strap ill placed,” answered Ottley ; and 
gave the order “ Prepare to mount.” 

The men fell back to their horses, and a mo- 
ment later, at the word of command, sprang 
into their saddles. While the light lasted they 
rode at a smart trot along the track, their 
leader’s face hard and set. As the darkness 
closed in round them the whole body of riders 
swerved from the road, and, striking into wild, 
untraversed land, headed for the north. Ott- 
ley’s plan was to push the horses hard all 
night and surprise the outlaws at daybreak. 
To swoop down upon them before any fam- 
ished peasant or scout discovered his men and 
warned the Tories, it was necessary to ride 
round their lair and strike them from the rear. 


87 


One of the troopers who knew the country 
guided the party. But his knowledge became 
practically useless as the night grew ominously 
black. Once or twice the advance-guard floun- 
dered into a bog, and struggled out with diffl- 
culty. At other times the horses stumbled up 
rocky hills or groped their way through sandy, 
broken hollows. Not a star shone, and the 
clouds covered th^ moon like a wall. Objects 
only became visible within a yard of the 
horses’ noses ; and round the whole circle of 
the night the black floor of earth met, without 
a break, the thick-clouded roof of the sky. 

The men dared not strike a light, and halts 
had frequently to be called. It was impossible 
to go beyond a walk, and the heavy showers 
of rain drenched the soldiers. When dawn 
came the troop found itself wandering in a 
tract of marshy land at the foot of a hill. 
Halting here, Ottley sent a reconnoitring par- 
ty up the slope. Ten minutes later a trooper 
came galloping back to report that a house 
lay about a mile distant on the other side. 

Leaving the men in charge of the lieuten- 
ant, he rode forward with the captain and 
went up the hill. A glance round the country 
showed him that, in the troop’s wanderings and 
doublings during the night, it had got north- 


88 


west of the Adventurer’s house. The woods 
in which the Tories lay were due west from 
that point. The darkness of the past hours 
had made the night attack an impossibility, 
and the plan was spoiled. 

Bringing up the men, he led the troop over 
the crest of the hill and down into the plain. 
A river here cut the marshy land in two, and, 
swimming their horses across, the soldiers clat- 
tered up to the house just as the gray light 
cleared into white. Two servants, who were 
driving a few cows into a high-walled field, 
left their work, and, followed by a string of 
barking dogs, came forward to gape. In an 
instant each was collared by a trooper. 

“ Surround the house,” ordered Ottley. “ Let 
no one out.” 

As he rode up to the door the Adventurer’s 
wife, who had just jumped out of bed at the 
noise, came to the entrance. “ Are the Tories 
on us ?” she gasped. 

Ottley raised his cap. The woman retreated, 
suddenly remembering that she had not much 
more than the quilt upon her back. Then 
she thought of her husband and cried out for 
news. 

“ He is well,” said Ottley. “ Have you any 
native Irish among your servants ?” 


89 


Only two or three, sir. The Commission- 
ers gave leave that we should have them, my 
husband pleading that he lacked hands to till 
and sow.” 

Then, madam, I must place a guard in 
your house for to-day,” said Ottley, “and 
allow no one to leave it.” 

“ Ah, sir, I shall not quarrel with you,” 
answered the woman, “ for I well guess your 
errand, and that my worthy man’s word in the 
Lord President’s ear hath sent you hither.” 

She disappeared into the house, and Ottley 
returned to his men. Placing a guard in the 
house, he drew off the rest of the troop to a 
coppice of beech and hazel, where the soldiers 
dismounted and picketed their horses. Send- 
ing out a few scouts, he posted sentries by the 
outer ring of trees, and then set himself to 
wait till night should again fall. 

Each man had brought two days’ provision 
with him. When all had eaten their biscuits 
and salt beef, some lit their pipes or went to 
sleep, others drew out their Souldiers Bible — a 
small octavo of sixteen pages, the passages, 
with the exception of five, being taken from 
the Old Testament — and listened with stern, 
interested faces while a sergeant expounded 
to them. 


90 


The officers walked round the edge of the 
wood, Ottley with brooding eyes. The cap- 
tain’s yawns and the chirpy voice of the sur- 
geon broke in on the silence. 

Naseby !” cried Tipland, at a muttering 
from the Cornet. “ Why, man, I have cut off 
a good hundred legs or more since that fight. 
Did I not piece you together after Limerick ! 
Now I think of it, it be an odd thing how a 
man’s soul is loath to get out of his body. 
And a battle or siege makes a many doors.” 

“And one day the door stands open and 
will shut no more,” muttered the old soldier. 
“Then a man ups and followeth Him on the 
White Horse.” 

“ I would,” remarked the captain, “ that the 
attack had been made. Some kerne may come 
upon our scouts and warn these Tories before 
we can ride down on them to-night.” 

“Yes, curse the mischance!” said Ottley. 
Then, in a cooler tone, he added. “Neverthe- 
less, last night was too dark to know friend 
from foe.” 

The faint wind brought the sound of crunch- 
ing as the horses ate round their ropes. One 
pale streak of sunlight broke through the trees, 
brightening a silvery web spun on a hazel bush 
near. All through the wood the raindrops 


91 


dripped from twig and branch, and drenched 
primroses and wild violets drooped with wet 
faces in the morning light. Suddenly a dozen 
voices broke into a psalm. 

Ottley left his companions and swung down 
on the group. “ Silence ! no one is to sing,” 
he said. 

The sergeant rose, the open Bible in his 
hand. “Would you quench the spirit of the 
Lord?” he asked, sternly; “and that too at 
an hour when we are gathering to battle to 
destroy the Midianites, sparing neither man, 
nor woman, nor child ?” 

“ Yes, sergeant ; and your life also if a voice 
is raised again. I forbid the men to sing.” 
Ottley’s keen glance ran down the group. 

“ The young man is right,” remarked a 
soldier as he turned away. “ I have seen Noll 
hold a pistol to a captain’s head who would 
not cease from expounding at the moment of 
battle. We shall shout praises to the Lord — 
yea, that lustily — as our swords hew down the 
Tories.” 

The officers had moved on, but the surgeon’s 
voice came down the humid air to Ottley’s ears 
as he crossed the ground. “ What ! have you 
not heard it? In truth. Cornet Salt, it’s like 
to make a stir. Good, honest men of English 


92 


birth are running off to the Commissioners, 
each with a complaint. The man-catchers 
have been growing over-bold, and have kid- 
napped wives of the disbanded soldiery and 
settlers. ’Tis a damnable theft, and like to 
make a noise.” 

Ottley stood still ; he had paused at a point 
where the trees broke. The raindrops fell in 
a shower over his gloved hand as he drew back 
a branch. A gray sky with jagged islands of 
blue arched the undulating land. Dark-brown 
clouds swung above the tops of the hills ; 
softened shadows swam in the hollows. The 
gorse lay like a yellow mist in a purple-brown 
field that spread midway on the nearest slope. 
Farther west were bogs, deep woodlands, and 
bare, stony uplands through which the lime- 
stone burst in patches. It was there the out- 
laws kept their camp, and it was there that 
they were to be stamped out and killed like 
mad dogs. Ottley’s eyes rested on the point. 
But even as he tried to concentrate his thoughts 
upon the coming attack, deep in his heart the 
message seemed to him like a cry from the 
girl. 


Y 


When Margery’s horse crossed the Clare, 
and the washed hoofs of the animal sank again 
in the muddy track, the dominant thought in 
her mind was that she had parted with Ottley 
forever. This belief gave her entire satisfac- 
tion. He was connected with a moment in 
her life which she wished to forget. As she 
rode on her spirits rose, and her immediate 
future filled her with no anxiety. Once or 
twice a thought of the outlaws flashed across 
her, but even their case seemed less desperate 
viewed in her new glow of hope. 

Not only wolves, but peasants, sheltered 
among the mountains, and some brave heart, 
she believed, would learn her need and help 
her to escape. There was no danger, though 
indignity, in her present position ; and as her 
fears lessened and her hopes increased she 
could all but see the French king’s ship wait- 
ing for her boat in the offing. 

In this high tide of her belief her imagina- 
tion stirred and played bright tricks, till in 


94 


fancy she followed the fading daylight, and, 
holding its yellow robes, dipped behind the 
sea. Then, when the twilight fell and the dark- 
ness deepened, she thought she saw through 
the door of night where the rose and blue of 
the coming day awaited the signal of the morn- 
ing star. 

“God keep me from meeting Cromwell’s 
Ironsides again,” she said, and her hand stole 
upward as she made the sign of the cross. 

Neither the blackness around her nor the 
showers of rain lessened this elated mood. 
She paid no attention to the mutterings of the 
men or to the gruff ejaculations of the Singing 
Woman, till suddenly a voice cried out in alarm, 
when the horses were stopped, and, amidst the 
rattle of bridle-reins and the startled tones of 
the servants, she sprang back from her dreams 
to the hard facts around her. 

“ A plague on the night ! We have lost our 
way! We shall have the Tories on us!” the 
three men called out. 

“Strike a light!” cried the Singing Woman, 
shrilly, without fear in her tone. 

Margery’s horse moved ; a lean hand was 
thrust out and caught her in the dark. 

“ If you stir, girl. I’ll drive a knife between 
your ribs,” the woman said. 


95 


Their mistress’s coolness stopped the clamor 
of the men. They were fair-sized fellows, with 
the hearts of hares, and half mad with fear of 
the Tories. 

A spark was struck from a flint, and presently 
a light was set in a horn lantern. 

“ Now, two of you knaves go on and find 
the road,” said the Singing Woman. “You, 
Jonathan, ride behind the girl and myself.” 

The party plodded on, the horses sinking to 
the hocks in the pools of water. The lantern 
shed fitful yellow gleams on uncertain-shaped 
dark masses that, for all one could tell, might 
be bushes or rocks. The men in front spoke 
now and then together in low tones, while the 
rear-guard kept his horse close to the flanks 
of the animals ridden by the women. All eyes 
tried to pierce the darkness, the servants’ ears 
on the alert for any sound that might send 
their hearts again into their mouths. 

After they had gone on for an hour like this, 
they found themselves on the crest of a ridge. 
The man with the lantern turned it on the 
slope. “ It be as black as a wolf’s mouth below, 
mistress,” he called aloud. “ I’m a-thinking 
it would be better for our necks to spend the 
night under the rocks to the rear.” 

. “ Out ! you runagate !” answered the Singing 


96 


Woman, in her lance-like tone. “ Tis but the 
bog beneath us. We’ll be near the river now. 
Down with you, or my son shall flog you !” 

The men moved forward, their black figures 
and their horses’ quarters shot with shafts of 
light. 

“Follow!” said the old woman to Margery, 
and she drove the girl’s horse down the hill. 
At the bottom the lamp -gleam revealed a 
deep-sunk pool of inky water and the black 
bank that rose above it. “ Man or maid would 
take a long sleep there. Mistress Yellow Hair,” 
she said, coolly. “ And it hath a many a fellow 
as deep.” 

“ Do you think I am afraid of a bog, English- 
woman?” answered Margery; but the black, 
slimy water gave her a creep as she gazed. 

The lantern-bearer dismounted, and with cau- 
tious steps guided the party over the yielding 
ground. After a time the soft surface gave 
way to firmer land, and the servant climbed 
into the saddle. About a quarter of a mile 
farther on they heard the booming and roar 
of a river in flood. The noise came across the 
night with a tumult of sound like the shouts of 
a multitude. 

When they reached the bank the man held 
the lantern over the racing current. Both 


97 


servants looked back at their mistress. Into 
it !” she cried,; and with white faces they 
obeyed. “Come, girl,” she went on, clutching 
Margery’s rein, “ we are all but home.” 

The horses swerved and refused the water, 
but some sharp strokes from the servant in 
the rear drove them into the flood. Margery 
saw her garran’s shoulders sink beneath her, 
and the next second her face and dress were 
spattered with spray. The splashing of the 
animals in front, and the men’s voices as they 
called out to show where the ford lay, reached 
her ears through the roar of the flood. The 
lantern lit up the liquid path, and shot rays 
beyond it on the black, swirling river racing to 
its goal. In a short time the force of the cur- 
rent swept the horses from the shallows, and 
they were soon swimming down the stream. 
They found ground again by an island that 
stood a few yards from the opposite shore, and 
here the party halted for a moment. Mistress 
Runnings broke into song as they waited, her 
shrill voice ringing treble against the bass of 
•the flood : 

"Ho, ho! for the river. 

Ho, ho ! for my song. 

The man-catcher's quiver 
Is full and is strong." 


98 


The witch-like tones rose and sank, then the 
river caught the last, lingering note, bore it a 
yard into the night, and drowned it in its roar. 
Suddenly Margery saw a yellow star in the 
heart of the darkness; the men pointed to it, 
and the next moment the Singing Woman 
drove them all into the water. The river ran 
with less force between the bank and the 
island, and the horses found and kept their 
footing. 

In a few minutes they reached the bank, and 
then it seemed to Margery that the darkness 
was dissolving, and an influence widening the 
night. Objects began to loom out, and in an 
instant she saw where the sky and the earth 
met. 

Morning is coming,” said one of the men. 
“ ’Tis well we are home.” » 

The Robe will have let down its flood in 
two hours,” answered his companion, and 
Margery started, a sudden chill seizing her. 

They rode towards the light, and in the 
creeping dawn she could make out a two- 
storied house with flankers and a bawn of stone. 
To the left, a few yards off, she saw the ruins 
of a castle. The men dismounted and led the 
horses through a gate into the yard, where they 
helped the women to alight. Their mistress 


99 


gave them a few sharp orders, and they took 
the animals to the rear. 

The Singing Woman caught Margery’s arm. 
“Come in,” she said, roughly. “I’ve found 
and made your song.” 

The girl shook herself free, though she re- 
membered the threat of the knife, and walked 
into the house. Mistress Runnings gave her 
a bright, keen glance as she followed. 

A door stood open on the right of the nar- 
row hall, and she told Margery to go into the 
room. The girl obeyed, and saw a man sit- 
ting on a stool before a turf fire, with his back 
turned towards her. An oil-lamp shed its light 
from the high shelf above his head, and a large 
spinning-wheel stood in a corner. He did not 
look round or stir. 

The Singing Woman gave him a sidelong 
glance as she went to a black oak cupboard 
and took out a dish with a roasted hare, a 
bannock of oaten meal, a black bottle, and 
two knives. These things she put on the 
table, and told Margery to sit down and 
eat. 

The sight of the woman’s unwashed fingers 
and strong yellow teeth, as she cut off a piece 
of the hare, took away the girl’s appetite. She 
broke a piece of the bannock, her eyes drawn 


lOO 


every now and then towards the man’s back. 
Suddenly he rose. 

“ I’ll to bed,” he said, abruptly, and faced 
the women. Margery’s hand fell as she was 
about to raise the cake to her lips. The face 
she saw was that of the man who had helped 
Boggas to kidnap her. 

What ails you, wench ?” asked the Singing 
Woman. A sickening fear had seized the girl. 
She tried to control herself, and went on eat- 

The man lingered by the door. As he met 
her gaze his stolid face lightened into a leer. 

“What do you wait for?” demanded Mis- 
tress Runnings, sharply. 

“To turn the handle, mother.” His goat- 
like eyes twinkled. 

“You have sat up late, my son. How be 
the fairies in the fort?” 

“ Drinking the dew, mother, and training 
their horses.” 

“ Show them the black-hafted knife. Their 
boat sails soon.” 

The man opened the door ; he gave Mar- 
gery another grin and went out. His mother 
took a deep draught from the bottle, and rose 
from the table. 

“ Now, girl, to bed !” she cried, in her short. 


lOI 


gimlet-like tone. Margery got up and followed 
her from the room, her heart beating with fear. 
They went up a stone stair to a door at the 
top of the landing. The Singing Woman 
threw' it open, and led the way into a room 
with two beds. Turning the lock, she took 
off her hat and cloak, and without undressing 
flung herself down on the mattress near the 
door. Margery stood looking about her in 
the growing light for a few moments before 
she lay down on the second bed. She deter- 
mined to keep awake, but her aching eyes soon 
grew weary of gazing at the curtain-like shad- 
ows, and in twenty minutes she had fallen 
asleep. 

When she awoke the sunlight fell in slant- 
ing rays through the window. She could hear 
the river still racing in tumult over its bed, 
and the lowing of a cow searching for its calf. 
A glance round the room showed her that she 
was alone ; the woman had gone. 

With the certainty that some evil was in- 
tended, she sprang up and ran to the door. 
It was locked, and the window was also se- 
cured. The latter faced the castle, which was 
built high and narrow. Its walls had been 
slighted and blackened by gunpowder; and 
through a lancet-shaped slit in a portion of 


102 


the building still standing she was sure that 
she saw a head. 

The vivid green lawn just showed beyond 
the bawn and the blue swirl of the river. The 
shadows were thrown backward, and even as 
she stood at the window the sunlight died out 
of the room. A cheerless gloom filled the 
place. She had slept through a whole day. 

As she looked from the ruin to the lawn a 
babel of voices broke on her ear. The sound 
came from the room below, and almost with- 
out knowing what she did she dropped on her 
knees. The house had been newly built, and 
the boards ill-fitted. Through a hole in the 
wood she was able to get a peep of the scene 
in the lower room. She could see the hearth, 
and the red centre of the black, smouldering 
sods seemed to look up at her like a fiery, 
watching eye. A bit of the Singing Woman’s 
petticoat was visible ; and by shifting a little 
she saw Runnings leaning by the door; then 
her hair stood on end as her eyes fell on Boggas. 
He, with two strangers, sat on a bench by the 
fire; a couple of wolf-hounds lay dozing on 
the hearth at their feet. 

“Fear!” cried Mistress Runnings — “who 
fears ? I have seen life and had my pleasures 
these sixty years. Hath not time spared my 


103 


teeth and my strength? Shall I hold back 
like a child? No! not if the Horned One 
stood before me.” 

“ Hold a bit, woman, hold a bit,” said one 
of the strangers on the bench. “We can 
finger our gold before one squeak of the Three 
reaches the Commissioners’ ears. But I ad- 
vise that we risk it not again. What say you, 
sergeant?” 

Boggas leaned forward and spat on the floor 
before he spoke. His keen, self-seeking eyes 
as he looked up made the girl’s blood run cold. 
“ I have risked my soul for less twenty times 
these ten years,” he said, coolly. “I have 
weighed this matter ; there is less risk in it 
than you think.” 

“ Yes, damn the risk,” growled the woman’s 
son. 

“ Let that oath pass,” answered Boggas. 
“ ’Tis not a fortnight, lad, since you had fears 
on this matter, which is not one wherein to 
summon the devil. We will send them down 
the Lough to-night. The Joseph of Thornbury 
will be due if the winds keep her not back. 
Where is the girl?” 

The Singing Woman pointed upward with 
her thumb. “ Overhead,” she said, shortly. 

“ There is the lower lake,” put in one of the 


104 


men on the bench. “ It will be a long trip. 
Why not cross the country ?” 

“ Verily you are no general. If there be 
pursuit, what better place than the islands to 
hide in ?” 

“ But the ship will be searched, man, the 
ship will be searched if the outcry gets to the 
Commissioners.” 

Boggas laughed. “ Truly the Three are as 
gallows to your heart. That troubles me not. 
The Joseph of Thornbury will have sailed be- 
fore the Commissioners stir a finger in the 
matter. But there is the likelihood of pursuit, 
and that after the girl.” 

“Hath Major Ormsby — ” called out the 
woman’s son, but Boggas interrupted him. 

“We are quit of the major. He hath so 
far stood my friend, seeing that I aided him 
in buying the soldiers’ grants, that he spoke 
a word in Sir Charles’s ear, and thus the 
maid was given into our hands. But he did 
this not fully guessing our purpose, thinking 
too, by chance, that you, Mother Hunnings, 
were what you are not — a sober, godly 
woman.” 

The old woman’s eyes brightened like newly 
polished knives. “ Quarrel not with me, man 
of blood,” she said. “ It will be well if you 


105 


remember that the noose is round your neck 
and the rope in my hand.” 

“ And your own scraw is caught too,” 
laughed Boggas. But this is what I fear. 
The Lord President and other Commissioners 
will not trouble to know what has happened 
to an Irish Popish maid ; the danger will be 
from a carnal young man, a Major Ottley. 
He hath put an eye on the maid.” 

He dare not risk the loss of his command,” 
observed one of the men. “ A friendship with 
the girl would be his ruin.” 

He is a carnal man,” repeated Boggas, 
one truly, I fear, given over to sin, even as 
the godless Cavaliers.” 

The other men sniggered, but the Singing 
Woman rolled a wet cloth into a ball and 
struck Boggas across the eyes. “ Out, you 
canting fool !” she cried. “ But that I know 
your worth in catching living flesh Td cut 
your wizzard.” 

Boggas flung the cloth from him, his lips 
widened. “ An old woman’s tongue is her 
weapon, and not much sharper than a wet 
clout,” he said, coolly. “You are ruffled to- 
night, Singing Woman.” 

“ And with right,” she answered, “ seeing 
how you delay over this business. But never- 


io6 


theless your words have some marrow in them. 
The girl hath a man-compelling face, and the 
sooner she is safe in ship the better for our 
money.” 

“ We shall have to bring up the boats,” said 
Boggas. “ Runnings, send your fellows for 
them.” 

“ They are in fear of the Tories,” replied the 
woman’s son ; “ and with some reason, seeing 
the knaves killed one of their number last 
week.” 

The two men on the bench rose. “ Let the 
cowards come with us,” one of them said. 
“ Our pistols will make short work of any 
damned Irish kerne.” 

“ Have the boats up before twelve,” ordered 
Boggas, and his eyes went towards the rafters. 
“ It is on my mind. Singing Woman,” he 
said, calmly, “ that the maid hath been of this 
council. Look at the holes and chinks in the 
boards.” 

Every one looked up. Margery thrilled 
with fear. The blood ran to her face, and 
she rose to her feet, trying to think cohe- 
rently. But her thoughts could cut no path 
of safety through the dangers that surround- 
ed her. 

“ Take her to the fairies,” she heard Mistress 


107 


Hunnings say. A few seconds afterwards 
footsteps came up the stair. 

The key turned in the door, and she saw 
Boggas and Hunnings on the threshold. 

The knowledge that she had nothing but 
her wits to help her restored her nerve. She 
looked from one to the other with eyes that 
did not betray her fears. 

“You are to come with us, mistress,’' said 
Boggas, in a cheerful, brisk tone. 

The natural, business-like ring in his voice 
gave her courage. He was less odious to her 
thus than when he assumed the nasal tones 
and pious phraseology of the times. Hope 
suddenly knocked at her heart. “ Sergeant 
Boggas, grant me the favor of a word with 
you alone,” she said, steadily. 

He jerked his thumb backwards, and Hun- 
nings went down the stairs. ‘‘Your will, mis- 
tress?” he asked, laconically. 

“ This,” said the girl, in a clear, low voice. 
“ ’Tis true I have heard what your purpose 
towards me is. By selling me to Merchant 
Sellich, or whoever it is that has bought me ” 
— her tone for an instant quavered and her 
eyes clouded — j/ou, Master Boggas, make for 
your share but a few pounds. If you will help 
me to make good my escape to Brest I will 


io8 


give you my diamond necklace. . This I swear 
before God and the Holy Mother.” 

His eyes fell and rested on her face as she 
spoke. They wore a cool, reflective expression, 
as if the man were looking inward. “ Where is 
this necklace?” he demanded, after a pause. 

In my brother’s keeping.” 

He was silent for a few moments, and she 
thought she had won him. 

A sudden surge of hate and horror rose in 
her heart as he continued to gaze at her. I 
promise,” she repeated, slowly, “ I promise be- 
fore the Blessed Virgin.” 

In an instant his manner changed, but not 
the expression in his eyes. Over them he 
seemed never to have any control. “Away 
with you and your idolatry!” he cried out, 
with an affectation of fierceness. “ It was 
such as you my sword hewed down at the 
Cross of Wexford. Away with you ! Offer 
not your gewgaws and your vanities to a man 
who hath put his hand to the plough to make 
of this land a vineyard of the Lord.” 

He motioned her towards the door with an 
angry gesture, and she went past him shudder- 
ing. Half-way down the stair he suddenly 
caught her arm. “ Remember,” he said, his 
voice again natural, with a cheeriness in it that 


109 


sickened her — “ remember, mistress, your dia- 
monds are gone. Many months ago your 
brother sold them for the Young Man, Charles 
Stuart, and this news, my maid, all in this 
house have learned.” 

It was a shrewd guess, and quite true. More- 
over, her brother had carried his sword to Aus- 
tria and fallen in battle. And it was the hope 
of meeting a man who had gasped out his life 
in agony months before that kept her quick- 
witted and brave. 

The Singing Woman and her companions 
stood grouped by the door as she came down. 
They looked up without speaking, and the si- 
lence chilled her. Their cruel eyes, she knew, 
ran her over as if she had been one of their 
beeves — as flesh to sell. 

The men took her out of the house. The 
sun had set, and the river ran slate-gray be- 
tween the green banks. Huge clouds lay tum- 
bled along the western sky. A jagged cleav- 
age, where the sun had gone down, made a 
door for the red-gold light to escape and touch 
the crest of the hills. 

They led her towards the blackened castle, 
passing under an archway into the building. 
Fallen masonry and half-burned rafters lay on 
the flagged floor. The staircase had gone, but 


no 


part of an upper room projected over the hall. 
Boggas took a ladder and placed it against 
this platform. 

“ Go up,” he said to Margery. 

She obeyed, and half-way up heard voices 
overhead. Pausing on the projection, she 
looked back ; Boggas was already on the 
rungs, the other men stood by the arch with 
uplifted faces. 

“ Go on,” he ordered ; and, keeping by the 
wall, she walked down the projection to a 
doorway. The room within was lighted by 
one narrow window. A number of women 
and girls sat or lay on the dusty floor. Three 
of the former sprang up with shrill cries as 
they saw Boggas, and ran towards him. 

“ Let us go !” they shrieked. “ Villain, we 
have been stolen !” 

He pushed them back. “ That tale hath 
been told too often,” he said, a cold smile on 
his face. “ Stop your foolish prating, women. 
We show you a mercy in sending you to 
Indian Bridges and New England, where you 
will forget your Irish blood and idolatrous re- 
ligion.” 

“ But, man !” cried one of the women, “ we 
three are honest, godly Englishwomen, wives 
of soldiers who have taken up their grants. 


Ill 


My husband, Simon Robins, trailed a pike in 
Colonel Faire’s Foot. There hath been a ter- 
rible mistake ! For God’s sake, let us out !” 

As she spoke she and the two other wives 
fell on their knees, wringing their hands and 
sobbing out about their husbands and chil- 
dren. Boggas stood looking at them for a 
few moments, then he struck each woman 
across the face. 

“ You lie,” he said, calmly, and turned away. 
Margery heard him go down the ladder, and 
knew by the sounds that followed that he had 
removed it. 

The moans and cries of the Englishwomen 
filled the place. Those who were of Irish birth 
looked at them silently with heavy, misery- 
laden eyes. Margery felt a sudden choking 
in her throat. The full meaning of that scene 
tore her heart. 

“ Listen !” she cried ; “ you can escape, you 
can be saved. Some of the masonry lies near 
the projection. When it is dark we can 
all jump on to it and get away from this 
house.” 

Every face turned towards her. As she 
stood with her halo of yellow hair in the dim 
light by the doorway she seemed to these 
women who had parted with hope like the 


II2 


sudden presence of a spirit. They gazed at 
her for a moment without speaking. 

“They would follow us, maid,” one of the 
soldier’s wives said. “ Ah, if my man was here 
he’d make these pick-thanks run !” 

An Irish girl whose head had been bowed 
on her arms looked up ; her eyes gleamed like 
those of a lost soul. “ The gates of sorrow are 
shut and made fast over my heart,” she mur- 
mured in Gaelic, and laid her head down 
again. 

“You have nothing to fear, you English- 
women !” exclaimed Margery. “ The ships will 
be searched and you will be found. But for 
me and my sisters here there will be no finding 
or pity. Come with me ! We will hide in the 
mountains with the peasants till we get a ship 
to take us to France.” 

The women moaned and shook their heads. 
Despair had clutched their hearts. 

“ Mhuire as truagh ! A mhuire as truagh F' 
they sobbed. “ The curse of Cromwell is on 
the land.” 

“Yes; but the blessing of God shall be 
stronger than it !” cried the girl. “ When it is 
dark, let us escape !” 

But only sobs and tears answered her. And 
as she moved among them and talked of the 


II3 

banished fathers and husbands and brothers, 
and pictured homes that no iron hand could 
reach, the dusk fell like a brown wing across 
the window, and the room lost form. One of 
the Englishwomen had gone out and looked 
into the hall. She told Margery that none 
among them could take the leap. 

When the night had closed in, the girl went 
herself to see. The hall was nearly as black as 
the room she had left. A few stars showed 
through the broken roof, and a faint gleam of 
stellar light pierced the gloomy depth at her 
feet. The mass of fallen masonry was invisi- 
ble. The woman was right ; to take that leap 
in the dark might mean instant death. 

Kneeling down, she stared into the black 
gulf and tried to measure the depth, but she 
was not sure of the spot where the heap lay. 
Her heart sickened ; the one chance of escape, 
faint as it was, seemed lost. The mass, she 
remembered, was somewhere on the right of 
where the ladder had stood, and, groping for- 
ward, her hand on the wall, she determined to 
risk her life and take the leap. Once on the 
ground, and safe, she could find the ladder 
and enable the women to escape. 

As she moved along a figure emerged from 
the darkness, and stood by the arch. The 
8 


sound of a knife drawn from a sheath followed, 
and the starlight showed the gleam of steel. 

‘‘No, no, mistress,” rose a voice. “I hold 
the black-hafted knife to drive back the fai- 
ries.” 

Fright and dismay kept her silent for a few 
moments. Then she remembered that the 
man had looked at her with admiring eyes. 

“Is it Master Runnings?” 

“Why, it be Yellow Hair!” exclaimed the 
guard. “Go back, little mistress.” 

“ It is dark and sad in the room, and the 
cries of the women weary me. Why may I 
not sit here?” 

“Indeed, I do not know,” said the man; 
“and to make you happier Fll sit up there 
with you too.” 

“ Do, Master Runnings.” 

“ Oh, a willing enough, maid. All right, my 
beauty, Fm a-coming.” 

He left his position by the arch and went 
towards where the ladder lay. She heard him 
groping about in the dark, and every nerve 
in her body thrilled. Her decision was swift. 
As soon as he was half-way up she meant to 
hurl the ladder back. Presently a curse rose 
from below. 

“ Damnation !” growled the man. “ Boggas 


hath carried it away. Bide there, mistress ; 
ril fetch it in the twinkle of your eye.” 

“ Wait one moment !” cried Margery. Is 
it not by the fallen masonry?” 

He moved forward and searched, and the 
girl marked the place. Calling out that it was 
not there, he left the castle, stumbling in his 
haste over the threshold. 

The moment he was gone she sprang to her 
feet, opened wide her arms, and, with a breath 
like a sob, leaped from the projection. The 
wind rushed by her face, her body thrilled to 
the shock. The rubble crumbled away under 
her feet, and her hands grappled the loosened 
mortar and stones. For an instant she was 
on her knees ; then, with bleeding palms, she 
scrambled off the heap and ran to the arch. 

In another minute she was racing away from 
the castle, leaving the Robe in her rear. A 
horned moon and the stars shed a dim, misty 
light on the fields. The land rolled off in in- 
distinct undulations to the sky-line. Thick 
woods lay in the hollows ; but for a time her 
feet labored through a ploughed field which 
had been made heavy by the rains. Presently 
she got into the wilder country, where her 
pace slackened as she went up the rising 
ground. 


ii6 


Tussocks of coarse grass lay here and there, 
and clumps of gorse dotted the slope. Then, 
all in an instant, she knew that she was being 
followed ; not that she saw the men, but she 
felt their presence; and, breathing hard, she 
sank on her knees behind a furze. When she 
dared to look down the slope she saw two 
figures crossing the ploughed field. The sight 
made her blood leap, and she crept forward. A 
thought of Ottley rushed to her mind. The 
blood sang in her ears ; she gave herself up 
for lost. Then, as it were, a door of refuge 
opened before her, and she found she had 
crawled up the edge of an empty lime-kiln. 

Swinging herself over the side, she lay pal- 
pitating like a hare at the bottom. It was so 
long since the place was used that it was 
choked with long grasses and weeds. She crept 
as far as she could into the narrow channel 
through which the lime was drawn, and pulled 
the grass and a broken furze the wind had 
blown into the kiln over her head and shoul- 
ders. After she had lain there for a time that 
seemed eternity she heard the men come up, 
and knew that they were looking in. 

“ Go down,”- she heard Boggas say. 

The sound of feet scrambling against the 
side followed, and a hand groped round the 


stones. Every instant she expected it to touch 
her ; the perspiration broke out over her body. 

“ She is not here,” Hunnings’s voice called 
out. It came from just above her head, and 
she knew that the man was clinging to the 
side. Had he come down he must have found 
her. 

Boggas swore. “ This comes of a careless 
watch,” he growled. “ I will turn out the 
wolf-hounds.” 

Runnings got out of the kiln, and Margery 
heard him stamping on the brink. A loosened 
stone rolled down and struck her, but the furze 
broke the blow. Both pairs of feet then went 
down the hill. 


YI 


When she knew the men were gone she 
climbed out, hurting her bruised hands afresh. 
Without looking back she ran down the other 
side of the ridge. Attenuated clouds floated 
over the zenith, showing a golden point here 
and there. The stars blazed like signal-fires 
in the northwest sky, and these, she thought, 
beckoned her on, for her own race hid in the 
mountains till their God should remember 
them. 

Her terror of the slave-house made those in 
her path pale and vanish from her thoughts. 
Boggas and the man-catchers were more fearful 
than the wolves. Even starvation and death 
were but a gate to ultimate escape if hope was 
lost. So she fled over the ground, her breath 
coming in sobs, though she was not conscious 
of fatigue. A dozen times she fancied she 
heard the dogs racing at her heels; a dozen 
times she seemed to meet Boggas’s pitiless 
eyes from behind some bush or rock. 

For a while the ground was broken and 


rugged, dotted with gorse and dangerous with 
rabbit-holes. Then she found herself crossing 
a floor of matted heather, which soon gave 
place to soft black mud, where the water oozed 
up under her feet. A deep pool, holding the 
reflection of stars in its dark surface, sudden- 
ly barred her way. She turned and reached 
the heather again, stumbling over the tangled, 
springy roots till she got on the coarse, faded 
grass that met it where the bog joined firmer 
land. 

The ground here rose on her left into a hill 
crowned with a dark, circling hedgerow, with 
an outer fringe of jet-black shadow. In front 
it spread in a strip of level sward up the edge 
of a wood. She had a vague feeling that she 
had visited the scene before, that she had seen 
it at some momentous hour, that her life had 
touched a crisis here. 

She made for the wood instinctively, driven 
by the wish for shelter, though she knew that 
she would be no safer there from the dogs 
than if she had remained in the open. The 
hazel branches caught and loosened her hair; 
her eyes could find no path in the dark. 
Pausing from exhaustion, she leaned against a 
tree, with hope and courage gone. Then 
again, as a thrill of horror seized her at the 


120 


certainty that the man-catchers were on her 
track, she thought of Ottley. He had saved 
her once; if he were near her now he would 
make Boggas and his fellow-ruffians fly. But 
even as she said this to herself her indignation 
awoke. What avail was his help ? what use 
had it been ? He had taken her from Boggas to 
give her into the power of the Lord President. 
That had been to fling her from one cruel hand 
to another. There was neither mercy nor pity 
to be expected from an Ironside. The tears 
gathered and rained from her eyes; her friend- 
lessness and impotence staggered and chilled 
her. 

She had stood by the tree some minutes 
when the sound of voices broke harshly on the 
night. She heard the cracking of branches 
and the noise of loud laughter coming from 
the deeper recesses of the wood. In a moment 
she was alert and ready for flight. Through 
the black shadows a head rose above the near- 
est mass of hazels, and a shout followed that 
made her turn and fly. The brushwood bent 
and broke in her rear, and she knew the man 
had seen her and was hard in pursuit. 

The race was brief, and went to the swift 
and the strong. In another minute a hand 
from which a wide sleeve fell back caught and 


I2I 


grasped the girl. One faint struggle, then an 
overpowering weakness seized her, all her 
strength melted away. Yet she did not faint, 
and was conscious of hands on her shoulders 
and hair, and that a dozen pairs of lawless eyes 
were fixed upon her face. 

“ Get a flare ! Get a flare ! We have a prize 
here,” she heard^ in Gaelic. 

The language rang like a sudden bar of 
music in her ears. She was in the hands of 
the Irish outlaws, but for all that she was 
aware she was in horrible danger. The cer- 
tainty of it, and her own physical exhaustion, 
kept her dumb for a minute. 

“Now, Art Mac Art, quick! It’s not your 
mother we’ve got,” called out the man who 
held her. 

The scraping of flint followed. Two or 
three figures bent together ; she saw the spark 
caught, a gleam of light flashed from a bundle 
of dried rushes, then the blazing mass held 
over her head. 

Over a dozen fierce, bearded faces were 
turned upon her. The light danced on ragged, 
saffron - colored kilts, on buff coats that had 
been taken from English soldiers, upon a steel 
breastplate here and there. Eyes looked at 
her from under shaggy glibbes of hair, one man 


122 


alone in all the wild group wearing a bascinet. 
The girl trembled as she met their gaze ; they 
seemed to her to view her like wolves. 

The hand that held her tightened. 

“By Mary! this maid is to my taste!” the 
man cried. “ She is too good for a hell-doomed 
Sassanach lover !” 

“We’ll pay for her kisses with the beeves 
of Cromwell’s fat devils that have stolen our 
lands,” called out the soldier in the bascinet. 
“Aye, maid, we’ll take your friend’s cattle.” 

A man whose blue eyes looked white in the 
yellow glare grasped his two-handed sword 
with a sinister gesture. “A curse upon such 
kisses ! A thousand-year curse !” he exclaimed. 
“Take the Sassanach girl back to her father’s 
house with her nose and ears cut off.” 

The man with the torch laughed. “ Death 
on you, Morrish Mac Shane !” he bawled. 
“ Owen Roe would have strung you up on the 
gad for that. The Sassanach have taken our 
women, and we’ll keep theirs. That’s the 
truth for you, galloglach !” 

The very extremity of her danger restored 
Margery’s wits. Her captor’s grasp had re- 
laxed ; with a swift movement she burst from 
him and ran towards and sprang upon the 
stump of a tree. The torch flared upon her 


123 


Puritan dress and a long strand of hair that 
hung over her shoulder. She turned her white 
face full on the outlaws. 

Soldiers of Owen Roe O’Neil, of Preston, 
of Ormond,” she cried, with scarce a tremble 
in her voice. “ Soldiers, may I speak to you ?” 

They rushed forward, but the man with the 
bascinet waved them back. Let her speak,” 
he called out, hoarsely with a laugh. We 
see her well up there.” 

‘‘ Oh, a fair maid !” jeered Art Mac Art. 
“ Her life shall be the life of our wives and 
sisters in the Tobacco Islands !” 

“ Our women at the Cross of Wexford !” 
shouted Morrish Mac Shane. “ Let her neck 
pay for theirs !” 

Soldiers of Owen Roe — ” she cried again. 
A storm of voices interrupted her. 

That name ! Eoghan Ruadh’s name ! That 
name on your cursed Sassanach lips !” they 
roared. “ Hie ! girl, where did you learn our 
tongue ?” 

Your tongue !” The slight figure trembled. 

Your tongue ! Mine! My tongue! I learned 
it at my foster-mother’s breast. I learned it in 
the air, the rivers, the land ; I am Margery 
Ny Guire. My father was the Earl of Fer- 
managh.” 


124 


In an instant the jeers and mockery ceased. 
The men stared upward at her. The lawless 
look in each man’s eyes went out like a fire 
suddenly extinguished. Amazement and awe 
filled their gaze. A silence fell upon the place 
in which only the deep-drawn breaths of those 
around her could be heard ; and the torch, as 
it sent a last flare over the still figures of the 
soldiers, showed the girl’s tragic face and up- 
raised arm. She had thrown a leash over their 
necks which held them fast. 

Then as she stood waiting, exalted almost 
above fear, a roar burst from the men. Their 
blended voices went up in one long peal to the 
stars. They waved their swords and skenes ; 
Art Mac Art, breaking suddenly from the 
group, flung himself on his knees at her feet. 
“ Welcome, a hundred thousand times, chief’s 
daughter, welcome!” he cried. “Blind and 
black fools we have been. By my soul, blind 
we have been. Put your foot on my neck, 
chief’s daughter. Take my skene and run it 
through my heart ! Oh, is it word you’ve 
brought of Hugh O’Neil, our hero of Clonmel, 
or word of your brother, Conner McGuire?” 

The knowledge that she was snatched from 
death, raised from shame to honor, set the 
world spinning round the girl. She stood 


125 


with her hands still raised and clenched, with 
neither words nor tears to relieve the terrible 
emotion she felt. The torch had died out, 
only a few red sparks burned on the mossy 
ground, and the features of the men as they 
shouted round her were but dimly visible in 
the dark. 

One by one they came and knelt at her feet, 
and took her hand and raised it to their lips. 
As she saw the bent forms, as she felt each 
man’s touch, she knew that a hedge of steel 
ringed her about, that Boggas and the slave- 
house should see her no more. 

“ May I rest on the cold flag of hell !” cried 
Morrish Mac Shane, the nose - slitter, as he 
clasped her hand in a passion of shame and 
joy. “ May the wolves end their hunger on 
my body ! The black sight I had — the cursed, 
black sight — to take 3^ou for a child of the 
Galls, daughter of Banba !” 

‘‘Will you forgive us, Margery Ny Guire? 
Will you forgive us, Fermanagh’s daugh- 
ter?” 

She choked back the tears rushing to her 
eyes as she looked down at the wild figures 
craving her pardon. She knew her birth had 
made each man her slave, that, at a word, she 
had sprung to the height of a queen. 


125 


‘‘You did not know,” she said, simply, “you 
did not know.” 

That is God’s truth,” said Morrish Mac 
Shane. “ We will die for you. By my soul, 
if we had ten lives each you should have them 
all ! But how did you come here alone, vein 
of our hearts ?” 

“ Is there need to ask ?” remarked the young 
man who had borne the torch. “ Did not her 
father die at Clonmel? is not her brave brother 
with the French? What friend has she left in 
Ireland ?” 

“ All hearts of the Gael, Teage Oge, all 
hearts of the Gael ! Give us the word, fair 
girl, and we will spill our blood for you.” 

“ Men !” cried Margery, as it flashed upon 
her that their pikes were hers — “ men, I have 
work for you. You have done me homage. 
Yes, I am a chief’s daughter! My father led 
some of you at Benburb. Go to the House 
on the Robe — the house of Runnings, the 
man - catcher. There are twelve Irishwomen 
there that he and others will take down Lough 
Corrib to-night. Save them, brave men, save 
them as if they were your wives and sisters.” 

Shouts of rage and curses followed her words. 
The men clenched their pikes and skenes as 
they sprang into line. 


127 


“ May hell get them, but I know the woman 
of the house and Boggas!” exclaimed Teage 
Oge. “ Good toll ril take of them to-night for 
laying hands on you, Margery Ny Guire !” 

Go at once,” cried the girl, “ or you may be 
too late ! But wait, there are Englishwomen 
among the stolen. You must swear you will 
not touch them.” 

“Your word is our law,” he answered. “ But 
we must first get our men together.” 

They crossed their pikes, and Morrish Mac 
Shane took the wolf-skin from his shoulder, 
and, like one decking a shrine, laid it across the 
staves. Then praying her to sit upon it, four 
men bore her through the wood. 

She felt very near fainting, now the peril 
was over. Her hands clutched the staves, and 
she closed her eyes. When she looked about 
her again she saw that they were winding 
through a woodland path, and that a torch 
had been lighted to frighten the wolves. One 
of the men had drawn out a flute, and had be- 
gun to play a war-dance. The light flickered 
on the long, wide sleeves of his saffron-quilted 
garb as his fingers moved over the instrument. 
His pursed-out lips and gleaming eyes under 
the glibbe were shot now and then with a ray 
of torchlight. A dreamy feeling stole over 


128 


the girl as she looked and listened. For the 
time she had no apprehension, no desire, no 
care whether she lived or died. 

Presently the party began to descend a slope 
covered with a thick undergrowth. A lumi- 
nous glow broke the darkness in one spot ; the 
men made for it. They carried her down with 
all the care a woman would show her child, 
the flute heralding their approach. When 
near the fire some wolf-hounds sprang up and 
bayed ; and men lying under the rocks leaped 
to their feet to stare with hard, fierce eyes at 
the girl. Quick as a flash of his own skene, 
Teage Oge sprang forward. 

“ Down on your knees, galloglachs ! down 
on your knees !” he shouted ; “ it is the daugh- 
ter of Conner McGuire !” 

A chorus of voices answered. In a moment 
the girl was lifted from the litter, and, stag- 
gering a few paces off, she leaned against a 
mossy, fern-clad rock. Then, as they pressed 
forward, she held out her hand, and they took 
it and kissed it, one after the other, with fierce 
adoration. Here and there a man broke into 
sobs. It thrilled her to see the tears in their 
eyes, to know that her name could awake a 
tumult of joy and hope in their hearts. Their 
yells rang from rock to rock as Teage Oge told 


129 


of the stolen women and of what Boggas and 
Runnings had done. In an instant arms were 
seized, pikes and muskets dragged from their 
stacks, men hurried hither and thither, while a 
storm of voices echoed through the hollow. 

And as she saw the arming and speed of the 
Tories, Margery suddenly gasped. Something 
she had forgotten rushed to her memory. Ott- 
ley and his troopers had ridden out of Tuam 
thirty hours before to cut down every one of 
these outlaws. 

Who is captain here ?” she cried, starting 
forward. You, Teage Oge?” 

A voice answered from the darkness behind 
her : 

‘‘ No, Lady Margery, I am. I, Manus 
O’Donell. What can I do for you ?” 

She heard the ring of steel, and a young 
man stepped into light. 

‘‘Oh, why are you not in France?” she ex- 
claimed, looking up and seeing one of her fa- 
ther’s officers. 

He took off his cap. “ A long story. Lady 
Margery. I am a desperate man, and lead 
these Tories till I get a better command. I 
am deeply grieved to see you in such distress. 
I kept back when the men welcomed you. 
Let me greet you now,” he bent on one knee 

9 


130 


and kissed her hand. Be sure I shall rescue 
the women from the man-catchers.” 

But — but — ” gasped Margery, “ I forgot. 
You cannot — oh, the cruelty of it! — you can- 
not ! The Lord President sent a troop of 
horse from Tuam last night to cut you off.” 

He leaped to his feet, and the men near who 
had heard her words paused, arrested in their 
arming. In a second the news spread from 
man to man, and all faces were turned on the 
girl. 

“At what hour did the troopers leave Tu- 
am ?” asked the captain, breathing hard. 

“ They were to leave last night. I heard 
the order given.” 

“ Then, God ! they are surrounding us now !” 
cried the young man. “ Muzzle the dogs ! 
Beat out the fire 1” he called aloud. “Art Mac 
Art, take three men and find out if they are 
closing in !” 

“Let us make a stand here, Manus Roe!” 
exclaimed one of the outlaws. “ We’d hock 
their horses among the rocks.” 

“ Yes, by Mary ! we’ll meet them in the hol- 
low! We’ll show them the length of a pike !” 
cried O’Donell. “ They’ll send a party in by 
the neck of the ravine, and we’ll meet them 
there. Morrish Mac Shane, take twenty men, 


and lie in the bushes at the mouth of the 
gorge. Let the first section through, then 
open on them with the muskets. The rest of 
the men shall take them in front. They’ll 
give no quarter, boys, and we’ll give none. 
By God ! I shall send the Lord President a 
bloody message.” 

Morrish Mac Shane gathered his men to- 
gether, and, with a fierce wave of his sword, 
marched down the hollow. The others fell 
into rank, forty pikes and ten muskets, and 
waited for their captain’s orders. Art Mac 
Art and his scouts had already vanished up 
the hill, and the snap of the branches grew 
fainter as they forced their way through the 
brushwood. 

The young man turned to Margery. Her 
form was scarcely distinguishable in the deep 
gloom under the rock. “ This is not a place 
for you. Lady Margery,” he said, his face hard 
and anxious. Ireton’s Horse killed our wom- 
en at the Cross. Teage Oge!” he added, has- 
tily, “ take the chief’s daughter and guard her 
life as you hope not to taste the blade of my 
sword. Ride one of Hunnings’s garrans. Bear 
her to the lough, and hide in the island until 
you get word from me.” 

Teage Oge stepped out of the ranks, hold- 


132 


mg himself erect. It’s a great honor — a 
great honor, Manus Roe, you have put on 
me,” he said, huskily. “ Sorry I am from my 
soul to miss the Sassanach. Sorrier still is my 
skene. It’s thirsty it’s been these twenty days 
for their blood. But I’ll guard Conner Mc- 
Guire’s daughter — for it’s the high honor of 
the word. God be good to me yet, and let 
me meet the Saxon devils !” 

“ The garrans are in Hunnings’s field. Lady 
Margery,” went on O’Donell, hurriedly. “You 
must walk thither.” 

The girl clasped her hands together. “ Oh, 
brave men,” she said, “ I wish you had taken 
service abroad as your comrades did.” 

“ It’ll be a pretty fight,” answered O’Donell, 
grimly. “ But you must go at once. Lady 
Margery.” 

Just then a wild figure sprang through the 
bushes. “ They are there, Manus Roe !” it 
gasped. “ The wood is surrounded, save by 
the opening to the bog. Forty men are creep- 
ing round by the mouth of the hollow.” 

O’Donell took a stride forward. “ Up the 
path, Teage Oge !” he whispered, sternly. “ God 
keep you. Lady Margery. Every man here will 
die before you are touched.” 

The girl left the rock, her face deeply moved. 


133 


She laid her hand on his sword. “ You ordered 
no quarter,” she said, speaking with agitation. 
“ But that is devilish ! Spare the wounded and 
those that yield.” 

They will not spare us. Lady Margery. 
This is not a place for you. I beseech you, 
go.” 

She turned swiftly and faced the silent, dark 
mass of life standing in the centre of the 
ravine. ** Men, my father was your general !” 
she said, passionately. “ And I, in his dead 
name, order you to give quarter, to spare the 
wounded.” 

There was no response, but a silence so 
significant that she burst into tears. At a 
sign from O’Donell, Teage Oge caught her 
hand with mingled deference and haste, and 
drew her up the slope. 

Every now and then he stretched out a 
warding arm as they struggled through the 
bushes. A deep sob broke from her once or 
twice. In her companion’s soul was a fierce 
determination to guard his charge to the death. 
Eyes and ears were on the alert, and his hand 
gripped his skene, ready to strike, and to strike 
true. 

Near the top they paused, and he listened 
with all his soul in his ears. The silence still 


134 


remained unbroken, and, whispering to the 
girl that the way was open, he led her up. 
On the crest he lingered again for an instant. 
The trees formed a dense cover for a few yards, 
beyond which the wood widened into glades, 
thickening again just before the open ground. 
It was this point the scout had reported un- 
guarded. Teage Oge stole forward. 

The girl followed him, her agony of sus- 
pense, as the silence continued, killing all sense 
of fatigue. She saw the bloody picture being 
painted in the night: the closing -in of the 
disciplined, terrible soldiers, the gleam of their 
hungry swords. She saw the desperate men 
waiting for them behind the bushes and rocks, 
with the loaded hate of centuries. Her ears 
tingled to faint, thrilling sounds of slaughter, 
the dim echo of the shock of meeting hosts. 
Suddenly the ho.rrible silence was broken ; the 
muskets rang out, and the night was torn with 
answering reverberations. Her heart bounded, 
and she stood still as if turned to stone. 

T eage Oge waved his skene and yelled. “ It’s 
begun !” he cried. “ Oh for the killing ! Holy 
Mary ! why am I not there ! Manus Roe, 
brave boy, son of great Tyrconnel, spare me 
one! Fair maid. I’ll die for you yet. But, 
God ! I wish I was there!” 


135 


He ran on, but she stood frozen to the spot, 
and he came back urging her to follow him. 
Then, seeing that her strength had given way, 
he took her in his arms and carried her towards 
the open ground. 

His eyes gleamed as he looked across the 
grass-land to the bog. No horse could follow 
a fugitive thither. The safest path to reach 
Hunnings’s field lay along its edge. The 
weight in his arms was little to him. She was 
something more than a woman in his thoughts ; 
she was his chief’s child, a princess to defend 
and, if necessary, to die for. This was all the 
light in Teage Oge’s soul, the light that came 
from fidelity. He spoke cheering words in 
her ear; he told of the island in the lough, 
the ruined castle where a man and woman 
might hide safe from Cromwell’s devils. But 
Margery could only hear the volleys behind 
her, while birds, roused by the noise, flew out 
of the wood, and a white owl, like a spirit of 
the slain, darted by her face with a shriek. 

Teage Oge never paused ; his breath came 
hard and short, hope was strong in his heart, 
the haven of the bog was near. Suddenly 
Margery cried out ; two figures had sprung up 
from behind a bush, with wolf-hounds in a 
leash. They ran towards the outlaw with 


136 


drawn swords. He dropped the girl, and, spring- 
ing before her, waited for them with his skene. 

On reaching the wood Ottley acted on the 
reports of his scouts, and placed Cornet Salt 
with ten men at the lower pass, fifty yards 
lower down than where Morrish Mac Shane 
lay in ambush, sending also a guard to keep 
the upper end of the valley. Then, taking a 
party of dismounted men, he crept down the 
side of the ridge, hoping to surprise the Tories 
asleep by the fire. The troopers carried car- 
bines with flint-locks, and each man had his 
priming ready. Half-way down the darkness 
and silence in the ravine made him halt and 
send a sergeant forward to report. 

The moon had set, and the stars rained a 
pale, vague light into the black gulf of the 
valley. In half an hour dawn would spring 
beyond the purple, rounded tops of the trees 
that stood on the opposite slope. A few thin, 
web-like clouds hung towards the north. In 
the silence, as the men waited, the snap of a 
twig under the scout’s returning feet rang out 
like a pistol-shot. 

They have been warned, sir,” whispered 
the sergeant. “ The fire hath been put out, 
and men guard the lower pass.” 


137 


Ottley made a signal to advance, and the 
troopers went down. Not a sound was heard 
beyond the crackling of bushes, or once or 
twice some unguarded ring of steel. At the 
bottom they formed, and, sending a detach- 
ment along each side of the ravine, he marched 
the rest of the men down the hollow. 

The Irish had set no watch to guard the 
higher pass, as they expected the attack to be 
made by the lower, which afforded the only 
entrance for horse. O’Donell had drawn up 
his men with their faces towards the latter, 
waiting for the moment when Morrish Mac 
Shane should spring out on the troopers. 

Suddenly the carbines spoke behind him, 
and at the same instant the Irish were raked 
by a fire from the slopes. The surprise was 
so complete that they fell into disorder for a 
minute, but, rallying quickly, wheeled and fired 
on Ottley ’s party. Their weapons were the 
cumbrous, old-fashioned wheel-locks, no match 
for the troopers’ carbine, and after one volley 
the musketeers fell back. Then the pikemen 
advanced with such fierce eagerness that Ott- 
ley’s men had not time to reload, and in an 
instant sword and pike and skene clashed and 
crossed. 

Hearing the firing and shouts, Morrish Mac 


38 


Shane sprang up with a yell, and, followed by 
his men, leaped into the hollow. Breaking 
into groups, they rushed up the slopes and 
fought the troopers hand to hand among the 
bushes. But the heart of the fight was on the 
broken ground in the valley. There the To- 
ries defended themselves with a fury that sent 
the life leaping out of many a trooper. Shouts 
and oaths and fragments of texts, choking sobs 
and wild cries in Gaelic answered the clash of 
steel. But the Irish were penned in. On each 
side of the ridges they were shot and sabred. 
The first fierceness of the struggle passed into 
the isolated resistance of a few men fighting 
in groups of twos and threes among the rocks. 
Not a man among the Celts asked for quarter. 
Mad with hate and despair, they swung their 
skenes and swords till the death -thrust set 
their souls staggering into the dark. A few 
on the hillside broke through the troopers, but 
they were quickly followed and cut down by 
the mounted men as they fled to the bog. 

Morning had broken as a party of the sol- 
diers galloped across the open ground and 
overtook the last of the fugitives. 

“ A great work !” said Cornet Salt, raising 
his bloody sword. “ Truly, we have wiped out 
the nest of vipers; yet not we, but the God of 


139 


Hosts. Ah ! there lies one of the dogs over 
yonder, and he moves.” 

His eyes rested on a figure lying close by 
the bog ; one hand had been slowly raised to 
the sky. Go, Pumcry !” he cried. Go, and 
spare not.” 

The trooper rode forward with his sword 
held for the thrust. At the thud of his horse’s 
hoofs the wounded man sat up. His bloodshot 
eyes glared at the soldier ; conflicting passions 
spoke in his gaze. Just by his side another 
figure knelt, half hidden by a clump of gorse. 

“ Sassanach !” he gasped, in broken English, 
controlling his hate, “ Sassanach, search the 
House on the Robe !” 

Trooper Pumcry withheld his blow. “ What 
is it, dog?” he said. 

But the man could only repeat the words, 
and Cornet Salt galloped up. 

‘‘ Is this how you do the work of the Lord ?” 
he cried, fiercely. “ Smite and spare not ! Yea, 
I myself will open the door of hell for this 
kerne !” and bending from his saddle he ran 
Teage Oge through. The man kneeling by 
the outlaw’s side rose to his feet. The sword 
was raised and swung over his head for a mo- 
ment ; then a gauntleted hand seized him by 
the neck. 


140 


“ Bind him fast !” exclaimed the cornet. 

We have caught one of the priests of Baal ! 
Truly, this is a crowning mercy. We have 
made him captive, and that in the midst of his 
idolatries, even at the moment when he held 
up his accursed wafer before this dead dog !” 

The priest stood still. He made no reply ; 
his eyes rested on the dead man at his feet, 
his lips moved. 

And, sir, I claim half of the five pounds,” 
said Pumcry. “ We got him together.” 

“ I will not withstand you,” answered the 
cornet. “ But this man’s price, if I mistake 
not, will be above a wolf’s. He hath long 
been sought for,” 

They turned to meet Ottley, who, with half his 
command, was riding out of the. wood. Blood 
streamed from some of the men ; their faces 
were hard and exultant. 

‘‘ Give praise to God !” called out the cor- 
net. “ We have slain these dogs of Tories !” 

“ At the cost of a good number of our men,” 
said Ottley, grimly. “ If I could but lay hands 
on the fellow who warned these Irish!” 

“ Truly, I think we have found him,” an- 
swered the cornet ; “ even this priest of Baal 
whom the Lord hath delivered into our 
power.” 


Ottley gazed down at the bound man ; the 
look he had worn in the fight still gleamed in 
his eyes. 

‘‘ Did you warn these outlaws ?” he asked, 
harshly. The pale face of the priest did not 
change color, nor did his eyes flinch before the 
question. 

“ God did not give me that duty,” he an- 
swered, calmly. 

“ Heed him not,” said Cornet Salt. “ Deceit 
is in his heart, lies are meat to his lips.” 

“ Officer,” and the prisoner’s voice took the 
high note of one who has no fear, the note of 
one who commands — “officer, lead your men 
to the House on the Robe, and God do to you 
as you do to those you find there.” 

“ Silence !” cried the cornet, “ thou servant 
of Satan ! In a few days you shall tread the 
floor of hell !” 

Ottley turned in his saddle. “ Does any 
man know of a House on the Robe ?” he 
called out. 

There was a moment’s pause ; then a voice 
answered from the ranks : “ It stands on the 
river-bank, sir, a mile distant. Joel Hunnings 
and the old woman, his mother, live there. 
Word hath come lately that they have done 
more man-catching than the Commissioners do 


142 


allow, and have kidnapped the wives of the 
soldiery.” 

The battle light died out of Ottley’s eyes ; 
for half a minute he sat silent and motionless 
on his horse ; then he swung round in his sad- 
dle. “ Place a guard over the dead !” he called 
suddenly, his tone sharp and clear. Sergeant 
Acland, tell Surgeon Tipland to bring the 
wounded to this House on the Robe. Cor- 
net Salt, take charge of the party left, and re- 
port at Hunnings’s when the burying is done. 
Forward, men !” 

He dug his spurs into his charger’s side, and 
galloped across the open ground. His gaze 
rested on the fort-crowned hill as he and his 
troopers swung by its base. He felt as if a 
cold hand clutched his heart, that he was about 
to face some horror worse than the carnage in 
the wood. 


VII 


The troopers skirted the bog, and, trotting 
through the plough-land, surrounded the bawn 
and the castle. Ottley drew rein before the 
door of the house, and knocked loudly on it 
with the hilt of his sword. After a while an 
upper window was opened and the Singing 
Woman looked out. The morning air caught 
her loose gray locks and blew them about her 
face. Her eyes rested with assurance on the 
soldiers. Come, come, this be a welcome 
sight !” she cried. “ My son started for Tuam 
yesterday to get us aid against the Tories.” 

Open the door !” commanded Ottley, “ and 
let all in the house assemble in one room.” 

“ Oh, brave men of war, I see your garments 
are stained with blood,” answered the Sing- 
ing Woman. “All that are in the house shall 
stand before you.” 

A minute later the door was flung wide, 
and, ordering ten of the men to search the 
ruins and the out-buildings, Ottley entered the 
house. 


144 


Mistress Runnings stood alone in the 
kitchen ; her hands were on the spinning- 
wheel. 

“ Where are the rest ?” he demanded. 

She turned the wheel and took up the 
thread. “ With my son, on the road to Tuam, 
handsome officer.” 

“You are charged with kidnapping the wives 
of the soldiery,” he said, sternly. “ I place 
you under arrest.” 

The wheel spun faster, but there was no 
reply. 

“You have a lady here,” he continued, after 
a moment’s pause. “ Where is she ?” 

The old woman raised her eyes. He met 
her penetrating gaze with a hard, angry look. 
“ She hath escaped. I fear the Commission- 
ers will deal with me for this. But she hath 
the wiles of these salvage Irish and hath fled.” 

Ottley went to the door and summoned a 
trooper. “ This woman is under arrest,” he 
said. “ Search the house.” 

The man went up the stair, and Ottley stood 
on guard near the door. His face was towards 
the window ; every now and then the Singing 
Woman shot a glance at him from under her 
eyebrows as she spun ; then suddenly she 
sang: 


145 


“ spin, spin, sphi, O Fate, 

Spin the threads of love and hate. 

Sing, sing, sing, my wheel. 

Sing of ruin, death by steel. 

Grow, grow, grow, O thread. 

This man's fate be on his head. 

Eyes hold him in spell. 

Short the road that leads to hell." 

He listened unmoved, and her gaze dwelt 
on him again as her song died away. A bright 
gleam shot from her eyes as he turned with- 
out haste to the sergeant who had come in to 
report. 

“The place is empty, sir,” said the man. 
“ We have searched the ruins and out-houses.” 
As he spoke the trooper clattered down the 
stair with a similar report. Not a soul was in 
the place except the soldiers and the Singing 
Woman. 

Margery had been carried off to Galway 
or Limerick ! Ottley’s blood leaped at the 
thought. He saw her misery, her despair; he 
knew the terrible future before her. He saw 
the slow agony of the death-ship, the horrors 
of the voyage. She was beyond salvation 
now. Neither the Lord President nor the 
Commissioners would grant a warrant to have 
the vessels searched in either harbor. Not a 

lO 


46 


man who helped in the government of Ireland 
would stretch out a finger to rescue an Irish 
Catholic from transportation. The girl’s fate 
was sealed ; there was no hope. 

Then the blood rushed to his face, he turned 
to the window and stared out at the laughing 
river, the green island, the swelling country 
beyond. The wheel hummed behind him, the 
woman muttered broken words of her song ; 
the sergeant stood by the door waiting for or- 
ders. Yes, it was true, he knew; her eyes held 
him in their spell. His heart stirred with a 
passion of pity and regret. 

Suddenly he remembered the man, and 
turned. 

“ Set a guard at the door,” he said, and went 
out. Despatching a burying-party to the wood, 
he walked up and down outside the bawn till 
Surgeon Tipland and the bearers came up with 
the wounded. The captain, with a mortal thrust 
in his side, lay in the arms of two men. A 
trooper rode in the rear whose horse showed 
signs of hard spurring, and as Ottley bent over 
the dying officer, he pushed forward and sa- 
luted. 

“ Colonel Hewson sent me from Tuam last 
night, sir, with this despatch,” he said, holding 
out a letter. 


147 


Ottley took it. It was an order to arrest 
Joel Hunnings and his mother and send them 
to Loughrea, there to answer the charge of 
having kidnapped three women, the wives of 
English soldiers. When he turned to the cap- 
tain again the young man was dead. 

“ He hath gone to the God of battles, yea, to 
the Lord of Hosts,” said the sergeant. “ Truly, 
a brave end.” 

“ Ah ! a many a lusty soul hath flung a main 
with death and lost this morning,” remarked 
the surgeon, who, his sleeves rolled up, his 
hands and arms stained with blood, stood back 
a pace from the dead man’s body. 

Ottley looked away. The chill of the grave 
seemed to rest over the place. He was con- 
scious of feeling deep sorrow for the loss of his 
comrade, yet through that grief he knew that 
something worse than death had happened. 
The rising sun, the morning light, appeared 
garish and hard to his gaze. The hideous val- 
ley in the wood flashed through his thoughts ; 
he saw the dead, he heard the groans, and right 
across that bloody scene a vision of the ship, 
of Margery, filled his heart with horror. 

An hour later Cornet Salt rode up to the 
house with the rest of the men, his face gray 
and grim. “We have buried our dead,” he 


148 


said to Ottley. “ The kernes we left to the 
wolves. Sir, I have to report that the priest 
hath escaped, and the five pounds and more 
that should have been mine and Trooper Turn- 
ery’s hath slipped through our fingers. While 
we busied ourselves with the dead he managed 
to get away.” 

That hour had given Ottley time to think. 
He had formed his resolve. As he listened 
with apparent attention to the cornet, he was 
ordering his plans. 

“ There are more priests to hunt, Salt,” he 
said. “You and Turnery will catch a man yet. 
Meanwhile you must take over the command 
of what is left of the troop. An orderly hath 
brought a letter from Colonel Hewson, and I 
have to set out this hour for Loughrea. As 
the men and horses require rest, remain here 
till to-morrow. Let the woman within be sent 
with two men to Loughrea by four of the clock 
this afternoon.” 

He sprang into the saddle as he spoke, gath- 
ered up his reins and rode away. The cornet 
heard him in grim silence, then ordered the 
men to fall out, and drew his Bible from his 
breast. One of the soldiers had found the 
ford, and Ottley went down the bank and 
crossed the river. He was about to make a 


149 


desperate effort to save Margery. He was 
going to tell the Loughrea Commissioners 
her story, to implore them to have the ships 
searched, to spare the girl. 

At midday all his gathering fears took form 
and grouped themselves about his heart. The 
Commissioners would refuse the warrant ; the 
result of his appeal would be to bring suspi- 
cion on himself. They would consider trans- 
portation a very satisfactory ending to her 
case ,' they would show the girl no mercy. 
Then — worst thought of all — the man-catch- 
ers had had six or seven hours’ start ; the ship 
might sail even before he had time to plead 
her cause. 

The certainty of failure darkened his ride, 
but his resolution held strong. Desperate as 
her case was, he meant to risk refusal, suspicion, 
every danger, on the chance that he might yet 
keep her from the slave-ship. He felt a slow 
fire burning in his heart; he dared not read 
the meaning of his horror. 

Towards the afternoon he heard fast gallop- 
ing hoofs in his rear, and on looking back he 
saw three men spurring after him. Though 
they were dressed as civilians, he judged by 
their air that they had been soldiers, and, tight- 
ening his rein, he waited to hear their errand. 


They saluted as they swung up, and all cried 
out together to know whether he had met any 
men and women along the track. 

“ We are looking for the man-catchers,” the 
stoutest of the three called out. “ ’Tis a dam- 
nable business, sir! They have stolen our 
wives, even taken them as if they had been 
salvage Irishwomen, whom ’tis their lawful 
right to catch and send to Indian Bridges.” 

“ I have seen no one,” said Ottley, sudden 
interest in his face. 

“Then they have made good their march. 
We must ride forward, sir, or the knaves may 
get them on ship.” 

“I’m on this business, too,” he answered, 
and turned his eyes up the track. 

“ Then, sir, it may like you that we journey 
together, since our errand is the same. And, 
if so, I will briefly lay our plan before you, 
which is to ride fast to a worthy settler’s 
house, five miles hence, get the loan of fresh 
horses, whereby we can push on to Loughrea, 
and there demand that warrants be given us to 
search all ships in Galway Bay.” 

“A very good plan,” said Ottley, shortly, 
and drove the rowels into his horse’s side. 
The men followed his example, setting their 
own animals into a gallop on the level ground. 


His eyes had a strange, reflective look. Half- 
grimly he wondered if the fiend had sent these 
soldiers, or the girl’s guardian angel. They 
had shown him the open door. If he passed 
through she would be saved, but he — 

“ And, sir, have these villains stolen your 
wife ?” asked the stout man, as they galloped 
along. 

There was not a second’s pause; the answer 
was given instantly and with distinctness. 

“Truly, then, sir, you know how we feel. 
These three weeks past we have been searching 
for our wives, and but within the last twelve 
hours we have learned that the man-catchers 
had them.” 

“ We shall get the warrants,” answered Ott- 
ley, and every nerve tingled as he spoke. 

“ But, sir, if the ship hath sailed ?” 

“ Before God, we shall follow them !” he 
replied, but the same fear was eating at his 
heart. 

All their hope now lay in the wind. It was 
coming from the southwest, and increasing. 
When they mounted the horses the settler had 
lent them they rode forward like men pursued. 
The faces of the husbands had grown eager 
and haggard. Ottley’s, too, wore an anxious. 


152 


stressed look. He was throwing aside his 
honor, giving up his position, and risking his 
liberty. His cooler self was overridden, and 
the girl’s haunting eyes had drawn his soul 
from him. Since the only way to save her was 
by a lie, he meant to take the chance of his 
own damnation, so that he might keep her 
from the pit. 

It was well on in the night when the guard 
opened the gate and admitted them into the 
town. The three men shouted out their errand 
to the soldiers standing in the gleam of lamp- 
light, whose faces darkened as they heard the 
tale. The officer on guard sent a man to guide 
them to the house in which the Commission- 
ers lodged. It was in a street close by, and 
the party quickly roused the doorkeeper from 
his nap. The man bade them lay their peti- 
tion before the Commissioners on the mor- 
row, but a threat from the husbands to wring 
his neck, and a piece of gold from Ottley, led 
him to look with more favor on their request. 
Leaving them in the hall, he went up-stairs, 
and returned in three minutes to say that Mr. 
Commissioner Weaver was abed, but that Mr. 
Miles Corbett would hear their errand. 

Pushing past him, the husbands hastened up 
the steps with the speed of men driven by a 


53 


fever of fear. They beckoned violently to 
Ottley as he followed them at a more deliberate 
pace. He had touched now the crisis of his 
life, and he knew it. In a few moments there 
would be no going back. His face was very 
pale as the servant opened the door and he 
walked into the room. 

Mr. Commissioner Corbett sat at a table 
dictating to his secretary. He broke off in a 
sentence, and fixed a pair of shrewd eyes upon 
the men. The three soldiers hung back to let 
Ottley pass, tacitly delegating him as their 
spokesman. He advanced with apparent cool- 
ness, and raised his hand in salute. But a 
sudden thought had rushed with fearful con- 
viction upon him; the Singing Woman was 
already on her way to Loughrea. 

I regret to trouble you, sir,” he said, in a 
clear, level tone, “ but our business is urgent. 
We have been robbed of our wives by the 
man-catchers, and we want warrants to have 
the ships searched.” 

“ And, what is more, sir,” put in one of the 
husbands, sternly, we demand, as English 
soldiers and settlers, that justice be done upon 
these men.” 

The Commissioner looked at Ottley. I 
perceive you are an officer, sir,” he said. 


154 


shortly. ‘‘What is your name and to what 
Horse do you belong?” 

Ottley gave the information. The Com- 
missioner looked harder at him. 

“ I have a packet here,” he said, in a short, 
sharp tone, “a packet just arrived from the 
Lord President, which tells me that a party of 
men of Ireton’s Horse, under Major Piers Ott- 
ley, hath been despatched to cut off the Tories 
lying near the Robe. How come you to have 
left your duty, young man ?” 

“ I had done my work, sir.” 

Ottley’s voice still kept its even note. 

“Are the Tories dispersed ?” 

“ We met them last night, sir, and cut them 
to pieces, with a loss of thirty men and two 
officers on our side.” 

“Well, well,” said Mr. Commissioner Cor- 
bett, looking pleased, “ that is good news. 
But thirty men — the rogues must have stood 
their ground. Where have you left your 
troop ?” 

“At Hunnings’s house. Men and horses 
required rest, and litters had to be made for 
the wounded.” 

“ An order hath been despatched for the 
arrest of Joel Hunnings and his mother. Did 
it reach you ?” 


155 


The woman, under a guard, is on her way 
hither,” said Ottley. ‘‘ The son had escaped.” 

As he spoke a nervous thrill of fear seized 
him again, lest by any possibility the Singing 
Woman had already reached the town. His 
impatience to end the scene rose to a tumult 
in his heart. The Commissioner leaned back 
in his chair and stared him in the face. 

“ I do not commend you for leaving your 
men, and that without permission. Major Ott- 
ley,” he said. Nevertheless, you have wiped 
out the nest of Tories, and some allowance 
may be made, seeing that it is your wife that 
hath been kidnapped. But how is this that 
there are three others on the same errand ?” 

“ They have suffered a similar loss, sir.” 

Ottley ’s eyes met the Commissioner’s stead- 
ily. But his heated fancy saw the guard bring- 
ing the woman down the street up to the door. 
He heard the clatter of the hoofs, her harsh, 
deriding voice. He felt his teeth setting to- 
gether, he saw himself holding to his lie in 
spite of her presence. In the pause one of 
the husbands strode forward. 

“ I urge you again, good sir,” he exclaimed, 
to despatch this matter with haste ! I and 
my two companions are old soldiers and know 
the value of time.” 


156 


True, true,” echoed the other men. “While 
we parley here, sir, the ship may have sailed.” 

“ I will give you the warrants,” answered the 
Commissioner. “ This is indeed a grave scan- 
dal, and hath already reached the ears of Mr. 
Weaver and myself. But Sir Charles reported 
that only three women had been stolen. He 
had not heard of your loss, I conclude. Major 
Ottley?” 

“ No, sir. I only learned it myself this morn- 
ing.” 

The Commissioner turned to the secretary. 
“ Make out the warrants,” he said. 

The man took a sheet of paper and dipped 
his pen with deliberation into the ink. The 
husbands’ eyes rested hungrily on it as the 
Commissioner addressed Ottley. “ What age 
and appearance hath your wife ?” he inquired. 

There was not an instant’s hesitation in the 
reply. His own coolness seemed something 
odd to Ottley himself. When further asked 
for the girl’s Christian-name he gave it with an 
assurance as natural as if years of companion- 
ship had made him familiar with it. Yet all 
the while under this outward control the wom- 
an’s song was beating on his ear. 

The order was then made out, and the sec- 
retary passed it to Mr. Corbett, who read it, 


157 


signed it, and handed it to Ottley. The young 
man’s eyes ran down the sheet, which ran 
thus : 

To all masters of vessels carrying deported 
persons to the West Indies or elsewhere^ be it 
known that they are commanded to give up the 
person of Margery Ottley^ adged twenty^ of fair 
complexion and hair, to her husband, Major 
Piers Ottley, of Ireton s Horse, to whom the 
right of search is granted. 

''Miles Corbett, Commissioner.” 

He folded up the paper, and put it under 
his coat. It seemed to him that Margery’s 
head lay against his heart ; her name at least 
was there. The sudden reckless elation that 
comes at the moment when a man hurls him- 
self on danger seized him. His eyes shone 
with a bright light, his lips smiled. 

The other warrant was made out, and when 
each husband had received his paper the Com- 
missioner addressed them : 

“This matter shall be rigorously inquired 
into,” he said. “The woman Hunnings shall 
be forced to confess her part in the roguery. 
Have a brave heart, good men. Be assured 
justice shall be done on the pickthanks.” 


158 


“We leave our case in your hands, sir,” re- 
plied Ottley. “ Mr. Corbett,” he added, and 
there was a certain slowness in his tone as his 
eyes turned steadily on the Commissioner — 
“ Mr. Corbett, this woman had in her charge 
an Irish lady, the daughter of the late Earl of 
Fermanagh. From what I learn she is among 
those stolen. Will you grant a warrant for her 
rescue ?” 

The husbands had already got to the door; 
they looked back with impatience. The Com- 
missioner folded his hands together ; the secre- 
tary had drawn the despatch towards him, wait- 
ing for his master’s dictation. 

“ Sir,” said the Commissioner, cheerfully, 
“that is a good matter. If the man-catchers 
would sweep all these mere Irish into their 
nets, I and my colleagues would be the better 
pleased.” 

“ Is 'the lady to be rescued ?” asked Ottley, 
shortly. 

“ No ; from what the Lord President reports, 
she is a vagrant, and as such comes under the 
act.” 

Ottley saluted with a certain grimness and 
turned on his heel. He went down the stair 
with his hand pressed against the spot where 
the order lay. 


159 


In the street the four paused for a moment. 
The wind shouted past them, and each man’s 
heart took hope. 

“ We must get fresh horses,” said one of the 
husbands, plucking at Ottley’s sleeve. ‘‘ This 
wind, if it lasts, will keep the ship.” 

They returned to the guard-house, and took 
some food while fresh mounts were being pro- 
cured. Then, followed by the good wishes of 
the soldiers, they rode out of the town. They 
had twenty miles of hard riding before them 
on a road that was merely a track. Each man 
spurred hard, and towards dawn the wind sud- 
denly sank, and a fine rain, like a silver web, 
fell over bogs and fields. The red streak in the 
east vanished as if a finger had been drawn 
across it, and a white sun stole up the color- 
less arc, to disappear behind the great dun 
banks of vapor. 

The day had come ; before them lay the old 
merchant town, the Connaught stronghold of 
the Anglo-Irish. The guard at the gate opened 
quickly at their summons, and one or two offi- 
cers came out and would have spoken to Ottley 
on seeing blood on his uniform. But he called 
out that he was the bearer of a warrant from 
the Commissioners and could not delay. Their 
arrival, however, and the news of the kidnap- 


i6o 


ping made some noise, so that the soldiers 
gathered to stare after them. 

They rode down to the harbor, and hearing 
that the Joseph of Thornbury still swung at her 
moorings, hired a boat and set out for the ves- 
sel. The waves were running high, and after 
twenty minutes’ hard rowing the gray wall of 
the mist broke, and they saw the ship standing 
out about fifteen yards to the right. The boat- 
men hailed and rowed alongside. Ottley and 
the husbands climbed up by the main-chains, 
and after a sharp parley with the captain were 
allowed to go down to the lower deck. Strange 
faces met their search, wild enough with grief 
and despair, but the women they sought for 
were not there. 

No other vessel was in the harbor, and they 
rowed back with every fear renewed. As they 
drew near the shore the three men asked 
Ottley what he meant to do ; for themselves, 
they said, they intended to set out straightway 
for Limerick. 

“ Let us go first to the governor,” he said, 
and demand that he help us in our search.” 

This was Colonel Stubbers, a noted man- 
catcher, and it struck Ottley that he probably 
employed Runnings in the business. There 
was the risk that he might know Margery’s 


i6i 


real position ; but each moment was precious, 
and he must run the chance. 

They found the colonel up, and about to 
breakfast. He was a coarse, fierce-looking 
man, who had treated the townspeople with 
terrible severity. But he appeared tame 
enough when Ottley showed him the war- 
rants, glibly agreeing that the theft of English- 
women was a scandalous matter, and sent at 
once for his clerk. 

Have all the deported been consigned on 
board ?” he roared, as the man came in. 

All, sir,” answered the clerk, stolidly ; but 
Ottley saw a look pass between him and his 
master. 

“ There, sir, you see,” said Slubbers, trying 
to be polite, “we cannot help you. The last 
batch was put on board the Joseph of Thorn- 
bury this morning.” 

But Ottley had caught the clerk’s eye ; he 
bowed to Stubbers, and, followed by the hus- 
bands, who looked as if they thought he had 
wasted their time, left the house. 

“Well, sir, you’d have been better advised 
to have started for Limerick half an hour ago !” 
exclaimed one of the men, irritably. “What 
do we wait for?” 

Ottley made no answer,, for the clerk was 


II 


coming out of the house. The man looked 
at the group from the corners of his eyes. 
“ I cannot speak to you here/’ he said, in a 
lowered tone. “ Walk down to the archway 
at the end of the street.” 

The party moved forward. “You made a 
sign to me, sir,” he said, when they drew up 
out of sight of the governor’s house. “ In what 
way can I serve you ?” 

Ottley opened his purse. “ No boat except 
our own left for the Joseph of Thornbury this 
morning,” he said. “ Now, fellow, tell me 
quickly where we are to search. ” 

The clerk looked at the gold, and his hesi- 
tation was brief. “ Go down the street,” he 
answered, “and stop at the Spanish house 
that faces the Lyon’s Tower. And remember, 
gentlemen, that my name doth not appear in 
this matter.” 

“We will remember,” replied Ottley, and 
the clerk, taking the gold, went away. 

They walked on as he had told them, and 
turning the corner saw a large house with arms 
cut over the door and with high, Spanish win- 
dows. Going up to it, they knocked, upon 
which the door was at once opened, and a 
man in a buff coat looked out. Ottley showed 
him the four warrants. 


163 


The soldier drew back, and they entered the 
house. “You have arrived in time, sir,” he 
remarked. “ The vagrants were brought in at 
five of the clock this morning,” and he point- 
ed as he spoke to a stair leading down to the 
cellars. 

Ottley made for it quickly. The light faded 
as he went down the dank stone steps till he 
could only just dimly grope his way along. 
The husbands came behind him, breathing 
hard. Suddenly a voice challenged, and a 
man stepped forward ; a second figure leaning 
by the wall loomed out in the gloom. 

“ We come from the Commissioners, fellow,” 
cried Ottley, in a commanding tone. “ Move 
aside, or it will be the worse for you.” 

The hand of the man by the step went to 
his sword, but as he drew the steel the soldier 
overhead called down the stair : 

“ Do not withstand them, Boggas ! They 
have warrants from the Commissioners 1” 

The man paused, but still grasped his weapon 
as if undecided whether to strike or not. Ottley 
sprang from the step and ran to the door. His 
hand found the bolt, and, drawing it back, he 
pushed the door open. A lantern hanging on 
the moist wall shed a faint light on the scene 
within, and the cold, fetid air of the place met 


164 


him like a whiff from a graveyard. Vaguely 
outlined forms huddled on the floor or crouched 
by the walls. All his hope, his fear, and horror 
at the thought of Margery’s sufferings looked 
from his eyes as he stared around the cellar ; 
then a cry, wild and terrible in its expression 
of mingled ecstasy and doubt and agony, filled 
the room, and a woman sprang to her feet, 
and, hysterically sobbing, flung herself upon 
one of the husbands. In a moment more 
the other men had found and embraced their 
wives; and, in the midst of tears and laughter 
and broken words and sobs, Ottley saw Mar- 
gery. She was leaning against the wall with 
her face hidden, but looked up at the strange 
cries of joy. Her eyes met his through the 
reek and gloom ; there was an agony of de- 
spair, of appeal, in her gaze. In an instant 
he had reached her side. 

“ I have come for you,” was all he could say. 
She did not seem to hear his words; horror 
still looked from her eyes. “ I have come for 
you,” he repeated. Then a great sob broke 
from the girl, and she sank forward. Raising 
her quickly, he told her that there was nothing 
to fear, that she was safe, that he had come to 
save her. He repeated the words again and 
again, and, supporting her with one arm, led 


i65 


her to the door. The faces of Boggas and 
Runnings turned upon him with malignancy 
in their gaze. 

“ Friends,” he called out to the husbands, 
“ arrest these men !” 

A sudden rush and clatter followed, and 
Boggas darted up the stair. Runnings made 
an effort to follow, but was collared at once. 
Ottley’s heart beat high as he ascended the 
steps ; he thought neither of the past nor of 
the future as his arm supported Margery. In 
the hall the dazed look left her eyes ; she drew 
herself swiftly apart from his side. 

“You will bring me to the Lord President,” 
she said, in a tone of despair and reproach. 
“ Oh, my God, I wish I were dead !” 

“I have come to save you,” he stammered. 
“ Lady Margery, I have come to save you.” 

Re took her hand again as if to lead her 
from the house, and in her misery she went 
with him. At the door the sentinel spoke. 

“You have found your wife, sir?” he said. 

“ Yes, I have found her,” Ottley answered. 

The girl started as if she had been stung, 
and drew her hand from his clasp. 


VIII 


Her eyes, frightened and haughty, demand- 
ed an explanation as she looked up. He felt 
the blood mount to his face and turned to the 
sentry. 

“ Take the women from the cellar and lodge 
them in a better room,” he said, sharply. “ The 
Commissioners mean to deal with this mat- 
ter.” 

The man left his post to carry out the order. 
As he disappeared the husbands and their 
wives came up the stairs. They led Hun- 
nings bound. 

“ Oh, sir, how can we thank you ? Oh, sir, 
we pray Heaven to bless you !” cried one of 
the women. “ We were lost and are found.” 

“ In truth, sir, we owe you somewhat,” said 
the stout man. “ But for your wit we should 
have been riding off to Limerick.” 

“ It must have wrung your heart to have 
parted from so young and sweet a gentlewom- 
an,” exclaimed his wife. “A brave lass, too, 
who would have led us all across the bog from 


1 6/ 


the House on the Robe. Ah, young mistress, 
you must be deep in love with so gallant a 
husband.” 

With her eyes on the ground the girl stood 
trembling, unable to utter the indignant de- 
nial that rose to her lips. All the world spun 
round her ; whether she were free or lost she 
could not tell. 

“ We will not linger long here, sir,” contin- 
ued the stout man. “ I would know your will 
about this rogue.” 

“ Take him to the guard-house,” said Ottley, 
his face stern in the control he had put over 
himself. “ Tell the officer in charge he is to 
be sent at once to Loughrea. He is a noted 
liar, and not to be believed.” 

Hunnings grinned ; he looked obliquely at 
Margery. 

“Very good, sir,” said the man. “ I will see 
your will carried out.” 

Saluting, he and his companions walked to 
the door, and passed into the street. One of 
the wives waved her hand to Margery as she 
followed. 

“ Farewell, sweet lady!” she exclaimed. “ I 
did think you one of the Papist Irish, but truly 
I fell into a fault, seeing that you have to hus- 
band this English officer.” 


i68 


The silence in the hall was deep for a min- 
ute. Ottley suddenly broke it. 

“ Lady Margery,” he said, “ we may be in- 
terrupted here. Will you step into that room ?” 
He pointed to a door that stood open leading 
into a lofty apartment. 

Sir,” and the girl’s voice quivered, “ I wish 
first for an explanation.” 

I intend to give it,” he answered. “ Par- 
don me for what I have done.” 

He moved towards the door, and she fal- 
lowed him after an instant’s hesitation. The 
danger and folly of the situation were rushing 
upon him. He had reached a moment when 
he was abruptly confronted by the first of the 
long chain of consequences. The girl for the 
minute was rescued, but he was ruined. The 
madness of his act, the certainty that his ca- 
reer as a soldier of the Commonwealth was 
over, made him stare aghast at his own fatu- 
ity. Moreover, Hunnings would tell his real 
connection with Margery, and, though at first 
the man might not be believed, a host of wit- 
nesses would soon prove that he had no wife. 
Twelve hours of liberty, not more, lay before 
him. 

The room he entered looked out on the gar- 
den, now neglected and overgrown. The walls 


169 


were hung with Spanish leather ; a few richly 
carved chairs and a table were all that were 
left of the handsome furniture with which the 
apartment had once been filled. The arms 
and initials of the merchant prince who had 
built the house were carved above the high 
green marble mantel -piece. Ottley paused 
when midway in the room, and looked at the 
girl. 

Lady Margery,” he said, quietly, you 
wish to know why I gave the sentry that an- 
swer ?” 

Yes, Major Ottley.” A faint color relieved 
the pallor of her cheeks ; her eyes were low- 
ered. 

‘‘ I did it because the Commissioners would 
not have given me a warrant for your rescue 
unless they believed I had a right to claim 
you.” 

‘‘ And have you got such a warrant, sir ?” 

“Yes.” 

She looked up ; her eyes suddenly flashed. 
“ Give it me !” she said, haughtily, and held 
out her hand. He thought of the gorse blos- 
som she had taken back from him, and as he 
saw the deep color rush to her face while she 
read the paper, the fear of the ruined soldier 
was lost in the passion of the lover. He 


170 


watched her steadily for a moment till she 
crushed the warrant in her right hand, and, 
turning her face aside, placed the left over her 
eyes. Then he did a desperate thing. 

“ Lady Margery,” he said, with a coolness 
that surprised himself, “will you be my wife?” 

Her hand fell from her face ; she looked up 
swiftly, and her voice quivered with shame and 
anger. 

“ Your wife ! No, sir, never ! I do not love 
you, I do not even like you. You are one of 
Cromwell’s officers. You have killed my peo- 
ple. You have killed the Tories. I would 
have saved them from you ! I warned them 
when they found me in the wood, but — but it 
was too late.” 

She broke down and sobbed hysterically. 
He walked to the window and looked into 
the garden. After a minute he left the room 
and spoke to the soldier, who had returned to 
his post. Then opening a side door he went 
out. The garden was surrounded by high 
walls, and the raindrops were falling from the 
neglected bushes and fruit-trees. 

He had capped his folly, he thought. He 
might have known the girl would refuse him ; 
he was but a ruthless soldier in her eyes. 
Want of sleep and mental excitement had 


driven him from one act of madness to an- 
other. He had sprung headlong himself from 
the precipice. But — the girl was still in 
danger. It would be time enough to think of 
his own ruin when he had secured her safety. 
He must take her out to sea in a fishing-boat 
on the chance of meeting one of the French 
cruisers, or risk the voyage across. Ah — what 
was that^the aide-de-camp had said ? — the hell 
of Charles Stuart's court. Yes, the girl had 
no friends, her brother was dead, and she was 
indeed alone. 

He sat down on a dank iron seat, and drew 
lines in the gravel with the point of his scab- 
bard. All the sparkle had passed from life ; it 
was a mockery, mere Dead Sea fruit. The 
reaction from great mental exaltation and his 
physical exhaustion gave him a sense of col- 
lapse. He could only see the lees in the cup 
that had once been full to the brim. 

The rain fell in a fine mist around him ; the 
wind had risen again, but had shifted a point 
to the north. Presently out of the mist he 
saw Margery coming down the path. Her 
wind-blown hair, her clouded eyes, made her 
look like a spirit in the gray-white vapor. He 
could only stare at her, his hand arrested on 
the scabbard. 


172 


She paused at a short distance from the seat ; 
her cheeks were white, her gaze was fixed be- 
yond his face. 

“ I have come,” she said, “ to thank you for 
ruining yourself for me. Yes, I will be your 
wife; then the Lord President and the Com- 
missioners will not know the warrant was 
false.” 

He rose to his feet. He knew at once that 
she only saw half his peril, that she believed 
the marriage would save him from ruin. And 
he knew, too, that she did not love him, that 
she was ready to sacrifice herself as a return 
for what he had done. He stood for a few 
moments looking down at her in silence. Sud- 
denly he remembered that the rain was wetting 
her yellow hair, her face, her dress. 

Do you mean what you say?” he said. 
“ But do not answer me now. Come into the 
house.” 

He took her hand and led her up the moss- 
grown walk to the door. They crossed the 
hall in silence and entered the room. Both 
their faces were very pale. 

“Do you mean it?” he asked, his tone re- 
pressed and anxious. 

She pushed her wet hair off her forehead. 
She was half dead from want of sleep, the ter- 


73 


rible scenes she had been through, the horror 
of her thoughts. 

“ Yes. I saw it all when you left me. I saw 
that the Commissioners would never forgive 
you for forging that warrant. And you had 
run the risk to take me out of hell. But they 
can do nothing to you if I am really your 
wife.” 

She paused, and the silence for a few mo- 
ments remained unbroken. 

“And then, since you will be safe,” she went 
on, “ I will go to my brother, who is with the 
king. For you are an English soldier, and I 
— I am Margery Ny Guire.” 

He looked down. A packet bringing news 
had reached Tuam an hour before he had led 
his troop out. 

“ Lady Margery,” he said, “ I had better tell 
you now — at once — your brother is not with 
the king.” 

She started. “ Then where is he — where ? 
I must go to him !” 

“ I grieve to tell you. A packet from Dun- 
kirk brought the news that he had fallen in 
Austria.” 

“ Dead !” she said, and her voice sank into a 
dreamy note. “ Dead !” For a few moments 
she seemed like one half asleep ; then she gave 


174 


a sharp, sudden cry. “ Oh, I still wish to go 
to him — I will ask Death to take me!” No 
tears had come to her eyes; she was dazed 
and stunned by the blow. 

A look of tenderness and pity sprang into 
Ottley’s gaze. “ Lady Margery, before God, 
if you marry me, I will protect and love you,” 
he said, simply. 

“ Oh yes, I will marry you — I have promised,” 
she said, speaking again dreamily, and look- 
ing at him in a vague, uncomprehending way. 
“'You shall be safe. I have given you my 
word. But I could not live with you. I must 
find my brother — I must find him.” She sank 
on a chair by the table and buried her face in 
her arms. 

He went into the hall, and sent the soldier 
for food and wine. When he returned to the 
room he found she was asleep. Getting paper 
and pen from the man, he took a draught of 
the Burgundy and wrote two letters. The 
first was a brief note to General Fleetwood 
resigning his command ; the second he wrote 
with an outpouring of heart, with passion, to 
the greatest man of that age. “ I would not 
have him think I had lightly fallen into 
shame,” he said to himself. “ He will believe 
my word.” 


175 


He took the letters, and, ordering the soldier 
to let no one enter the room, went out and 
sealed them at a clerk’s house. Then, going 
to the harbor, he learned that a fishing-smack 
would sail that night for Limerick. The fisher- 
men spoke in Gaelic, one of their number 
translating what they said. They were dark- 
browed, wild - looking men who eyed him 
stealthily. They told him that he would find 
a vessel sailing for The Hague at Limerick, 
peace having just been made with the Dutch. 

On his way back he paused to buy a cloak 
for Margery. He calculated that the Singing 
Woman would not be brought before the 
Commissioners till past noon. The orderly 
would be despatched to Galway after the 
court rose. If by any chance an officer who 
knew him should be present while she was ex- 
amined — and Ottley thought of Major Ormsby 
— Stubbers would be ordered to arrest him. 
The man would reach the town by nine or ten 
of the clock, by which time he and Margery 
must be at sea. Here the girl’s future dark- 
ened his thoughts. It would be a dastardly 
thing, he said to himself, to marry her, letting 
her think that she had saved him from dis- 
grace by becoming his wife. If she learned 
that the marriage would not prevent his being 


176 


court-martialled, she would see no reason for 
a sacrifice. It was true she was absolutely 
friendless, and must look to him to secure her 
safety. But, God, what safety would it be to 
land her penniless in a foreign country ! 

On entering the house he found her still 
asleep, but the clank of his sword made her sit 
up with a start. He took the food and wine 
and put them before her. “ I have found a 
boat that will take us to Limerick to-night,” 
he said. “ A ship there that will carry us to 
The Hague.” 

She looked up, her eyes puzzled, frightened, 
“ But — but — you remain with your regiment. 
You remain with the English soldiers in Ire- 
land.” 

“ If I do,” said Ottley, gloomily, “ I shall be 
court-martialled and removed from my com- 
mand, and probably imprisoned.” 

“ Not — ” and her face flushed, not if they 
learn the warrant is true.” 

“ That will not save me. Lady Margery. I 
want to tell you that our marriage will not 
mend matters for me as regards my profession. 
I let you know this so that you may act as 
you choose.” 

“ Then — what will save you ?” 

“ Only flight,” he said, with stern brevity. 


177 


There was a brief pause. His gaze was 
averted, but the girl’s eyes were fixed on his 
face. 

“ When you rode to save me, did you see 
all this?” she asked. 

“Yes.” 

“ Then — why — why did you ruin yourself ?” 

He smiled rather grimly. “ For an old rea- 
son — old as Adam.” 

She turned her head away and leaned her 
face on her hand. His eyes rested on her 
with a deep, steady gaze. 

Suddenly she said, without looking up, 
“ Major Ottley, what do you mean to do ?” 

“ Place you in safety, then give my sword to 
the Swedes.” 

“And — am I free?” The blood rushed up 
to her face. 

“ Yes, most free. I could not keep you to 
a promise given under a misapprehension.” 

A silence followed, which was suddenly 
broken by the noise of men entering the hall. 
The girl’s face blanched with terror, and Ottley 
took a step forward, his hand on his sword. 
As the door swung open. Colonel Stubbers, 
followed by a guard, walked in. Ordering the 
men to stand by the entrance, he stalked up to 
Ottley. 


12 


178 


‘‘ Major,” he said, speaking civilly, though 
his coarse face wore a lowering look, “ a bird 
hath shown you our nest. For myself, I am 
innocent of this matter. These people came 
in this morning, after I had held word with 
you. I am told — and now I see — that the 
Englishwomen were among them.” 

“ Yes,” said Ottley, hoarsely, his repressed 
excitement alone showing in his eyes. 

“ Hearken to me, major,” continued Stub- 
bers, suddenly changing his tone and speak- 
ing roughly. “ The man Runnings hath 
brought a strange report to my ear. A word 
from you will discredit it, for I am aware you 
are a young man of approved valor and would 
not imperil your soul’s salvation by a lie. 
He doth declare that this lady is not your 
wife.” 

“ I have satisfied the Commissioners on that 
point,” said Ottley, haughtily. “ I am not 
bound to answer an insolent question.” 

Stubbers turned to Margery. “ Mistress, is 
Major Ottley your husband?” he asked. Ott- 
ley ’s eyes rushed to her left hand. It seemed 
a miracle, but there was a ring upon it. 

“ Sir, you have heard his answer,” she said, 
in a voice that trembled. 

It doth not disprove the charge. If you 


179 


are his wife, say so. Is this officer your hus- 
band ?” 

She rose to her feet, her face ghastly, and 
walked slowly up to Ottley. Placing one arm 
round his neck, she laid her head against his 
breast. “Yes, go !” she said, and felt as if the 
room and life itself were sinking from her. 

“I am satisfied,” answered Stubbers, “and 
offer my apologies to you, mistress, and to 
Major Ottley. I know Runnings to be a liar. 
He hath brought me into ill repute with the 
Commissioners, and he shall suffer.” He turned 
to the guard. “ Remove the vagrants from 
the house,” he roared, “ and see that they are 
duly shipped on the Joseph of Thornhuryf 

Ottley stood rigid as if turned to stone, but 
the blood was leaping through his veins. The 
fair head was on his heart, so near his face, and 
he dared not bend and kiss it or clasp her in 
his arms. His eyes were drunk with ecstat- 
ic surprise, fear, and longing. The governor 
strode from the room. Then the arm slipped 
from his neck, a shudder ran through the girl’s 
frame, and the next moment half the width of 
the apartment separated them from each other. 

He walked to the window. He knew now 
that he wanted her before all things else in 
life. Not daring to speak, he stood looking 


i8o 


out at the dismal garden. Thus some minutes 
passed, till the thought of their peril rushed 
upon him again. He remembered the impera- 
tive need of getting away before the Commis- 
sioners’ messenger arrived. All the passion 
died out of his eyes as he turned to the girl, 
who had sunk upon a chair with her face hid- 
den in her arms. 

“You must take some food,” he said, and 
she stirred a little, rising presently like one 
half asleep.. They ate in silence ; then, putting 
on her cloak, he led her from the room. Some 
soldiers had gathered in the hall, and he gave 
his letters into the charge of a sergeant. 

The afternoon was drawing in. All day long 
the rain had kept the day dark, and the clouds 
still hung unbroken over the town and the 
harbor. Neither he nor Margery spoke as 
they made their way to the quay. The terri- 
ble shock of her capture and her brother’s 
death had broken her spirit. She followed 
him with a white, impassive face, as if life had 
run down and the bitterness of living were 
over. The boat was ready, lying by the 
wharf; and after he had placed her in the 
stern he went farther up and sat apart. The 
sailors crowded round her as if to keep her 
from being seen from the shore. Ottley won- 


i8i 


dered with alarm if they knew that she was a 
fugitive. Then he remembered that it was a 
Celt that had warned him of her danger, who 
had written the line that he had found under 
his saddle-flap — She ye saved is lost. 

When the ghost-like gleam in the west told 
that the sun had sunk, the men unmoored the 
boat and ran up the sails. The great cup of 
the ocean dipped and rose against a misty^ 
yellow-ochre line that rimmed the sky ; all the 
curtains of the night slowly loosened and 
dropped over the swell of the waves. 

Stunned and most miserable, Margery fell 
asleep, and slept till a voice sharply asking a 
question, and a loud, sullen answer, made her 
start and sit up. It seemed to her that it was 
past midnight, that she had been sailing out- 
ward over the Atlantic for hours. Then, as 
her eyes cleared, she saw that the boat had 
been run in close to the shore and was swing- 
ing under the lea of a mountain. A light 
twinkled from the land, and stars showed over 
the cliff between the threads of a black, trail- 
ing cloud. One of the men had sprung on 
shore, and the rattle of the shingle under his 
feet rose above the deep breathing of the sea. 

Why are we here?” Ottley called out. No 
one answered, but the boatmen spoke together 


i 82 


in Gaelic, and their eyes took a hostile look as 
they turned them upon him. He crossed the 
thwart to the stern. 

“ What are these men saying?’' he asked the 
girl. 

But even as he spoke a man bent towards 
her. “‘You can land, mo chraohhin aoibhin7i 
he whispered in Gaelic. 

She rose to her feet and staggered. Ottley 
caught her. “ What does it mean ?” he asked 
again. 

The sailor stretched out a hand. “ The 
maid, not the Sassanach,” he exclaimed, point- 
ing with the other to the shore. 

“ Some of our people are in hiding here,” 
she said, trembling; “ they will not let you see 
them.” 

“ But I am a fugitive,” he answered, “ and 
can do no harm. And why are you to land ?” 

Two pistols were suddenly pointed at his 
head, and at the same moment a voice called 
out to the girl. “ Go ashore, fair maid, go 
ashore. Those that will help you are there.” 

“ They will not touch you,” she whispered, 
“ only you must not land.” 

She staggered again at the movement of 


My fair, noble maid. 


i83 


the boat, and one of the sailors led her to the 
bow. 

“You will come back?” cried Ottley, sud- 
denly, as he saw her carried on shore. “ Mar- 
gery, you will come back?” 

There was no answer, and the men shoved 
the boat farther out. He sank down on the 
thwart, hiding his face in his hands. The 
light of his life was gone, and she would starve 
or be caught by man-catchers on that desolate, 
sombre coast. 

The boatmen muttered together, and after a 
while a voice called from the shore. It came 
hard and strident down the wind. The men 
answered and pulled closer to the land, and 
for a few moments the ocean and beach 
resounded with the shouts of the sailors. 

A hand touched Ottley ’s shoulder. “ Sol- 
dier, you must land,” said the man, ominously, 
in English. 

All the eyes in the boat were fixed upon him 
with sullen interest. Ottley sprang to his 
feet, and, drawing his sword, leaped on shore. 
He did not care if it was death he was rush- 
ing on, so that he met Margery before he died. 
As he hastened down the beach he saw the 
light in front blaze into a greater glow, as if 
suddenly renewed. Then out of the black 


shadows of the night two figures rose and 
stood in his path. As he raised his sword to 
defend himself a voice cried out, Englishman, 
we are friends !” 

He paused, still standing on guard, and the 
voice went on : “ Major Ottley” — the words 
were spoken in pure English — “ I am Father 
Taaffe, the priest whom your men captured, 
brother to that Lord Taaffe that fell at Drogh- 
eda, and, by the mercy of God, spared yet 
awhile. I have not brought you here that 
your life should be taken in retribution for the 
lives you have slain. I have sent for you in 
order that we speak about the Lady Margery 
Ny Guire.” 

“Where is she?” broke from Ottley. 

“ In the cabin yonder. Young man, you and 
yours have been as devils let loose on the land. 
But you have saved this girl, the child of a great 
race. Her brother is dead. The Stuarts are 
traitors to their friends; all that trust in them 
perish. Take this maid and make her your 
wife, for the times are black, and a worse evil 
than marriage with you may befall her yet.” 

Ottley smiled ; he lowered his sword ; he 
could have shouted a paean. Then the fire in 
his soul became white heat; every emotion 
seemed welded together; he felt strong, re- 


185 


newed, exultant. Mind and spirit grasped 
the reins of his life ; he had recovered control 
of himself. His manner became calm and 
assured. “You are complimentary, priest,” he 
said, “ but my wish runs with yours.” 

“ I am doing, perhaps, a mortal sin,” con- 
tinued the priest, “ in marrying her to a Puritan, 
and one heavy with the blood of the people. 
But hell in life awaits her if I put her not 
under your care.” 

“ She does not love me,” said Ottley, as if 
suddenly remembering something. 

“ Sir, it will be for you to win her love. 
Now she will obey my command and marry 
you.” 

They had been walking on. Ottley stopped 
short at the words. “She must come of her 
own will, not by a priest’s command,” he an- 
swered. “ I will return to the boat.” 

“ My time is short,” replied his companion, 
“ and I must go to others of my flock now 
perishing in the mountains. This matter must 
be arranged at once. Major Ottley, the girl’s 
heart is turned towards you.” 

Ottley stood hesitating for a moment, then 
he went on towards the cabin. The door was 
open, and he saw Margery sitting by the turf 
fire, her hair held over one arm as she dried it 


86 


by the blaze. She did not stir as the men 
came in, and the priest moved with dignity to 
her side and looked down at her bent head. 

“ My daughter,” he said, gently yet solemnl}^, 
“ the man into whose hands your life must be 
given is here.” 

She started, and Ottley saw a vivid color 
rush to her face as she stood up. Lady Mar- 
gery,” he said, looking keenly at her, “ are you 
marrying me of your own free will, or are you 
only obeying this man’s commands?” 

Her eyes fell and her fingers closed round a 
long tress of her hair. ** I obey his command,” 
she said, “ but — I marry you, too, of my free 
will.” 

“ Before God ?” he asked. 

“Before God — you saved me — yes, you 
saved me from deat/i /*' 

Then only gratitude influenced her! He 
stood hesitating, looking down for a few mo- 
ments. Love never sprang after marriage from 
it ; a calm, barren emotion without glow or 
passion. Should he take her ? Reason must 
guide him here, not his heart. And, soft-eyed, 
all her darts hidden, the calm goddess arose. 
In wise, measured words she spoke of the girl’s 
danger, friendlessness, destitution; showed him 
that he alone could protect her. But as she 


87 


turned smiling away he saw it was not reason 
that had spoken, but love. He looked up as 
the priest spoke, and took his place by Mar- 
gery’s side. 

To him the sacrament was no marriage. His 
training and instincts made him regard the 
vows made before a man whom his troopers 
had hunted, whose neck must come to the 
gallows before long, as binding neither in the 
sight of God nor of the law. He determined 
to have the ceremony performed over again at 
The Hague. But he knew that they were sol- 
emn to Margery, and that she would not look 
upon herself as a wife unless a priest had mar- 
ried her. 

She continued to kneel after the final words, 
and the priest’s voice sank as he uttered a 
blessing. Then it rose into a prayer, sudden, 
appealing, agonized. “ O God !” he cried, 
“ look upon the travail of this nation. O 
God ! their forefathers sought out the heathen 
and showed them Thy love. .Deliver them, for 
they starve and die on the mountains; they are 
ridden down and slain ; their sons and their 
daughters are sold into captivity. Hear, O 
Lord God ! hear and save !” 

Then his eyes lit up with the look of one 
who saw across time and death, who saw where 


i88 


God’s promise waijted for its fulfilment. He 
gathered up his shepherd’s cloak, and as Mar- 
gery knelt sobbing on the mud floor he went 
out into the night to meet his death among 
his people in the mountains. 

One of the boatmen touched Ottley’s sleeve 
and pointed towards the sea. As he did so a 
man with pale, pinched features and a long, 
yellow beard came out of a corner. He told 
Ottley that they were to sail southwest to meet 
a vessel that was lying off the coast for some 
fugitives, adding that he was one himself, and 
urging that they should start at once. 

Ottley moved towards Margery. But she 
had heard the man, and, rising to her feet, 
went out, leaving her head uncovered. A 
lonely feeling seized the young man, and his 
outstretched hand fell to his side. She was a 
cold, grateful bride, nothing more. He saw 
her light figure bend before the wind, her hair 
blowing out behind her in pale strands. The 
boatmen hung round her side as they reached 
the edge of the water, talking in Gaelic. One 
of them turned to Ottley and said a few words 
which the yellow-bearded man translated. It 
was a rough apology ; they had not known the 
priest’s will. 

Ottley took a seat apart from the girl, and 


189 


sat looking over the waves, which swelled and 
curled and tossed black under the cloudy sky. 
His heart was bitter within him. 

In the stern Margery told her beads and 
wondered why God had thrown her into the 
arms of an English soldier. And the more 
she wondered, that that had happened seemed 
less strange and awful. Once or twice she 
dared to look up the boat, but the face under 
the steel cap was turned away. 

So the boat danced on before the wind, and 
the minutes grew long and solemn, and the 
night and eternity became as one to the girl. 
Mystic sounds rose and sank, and sobs and 
voices thrilled along the dark from the main- 
land. And the cries of those who were lost, of 
the captives, came faintly from the islands of 
death, borne on cold currents to her ears. 

Then out of the blackness, creeping against 
the green of dawn, a ship rose on the left. The 
boatmen cried out at the sight, and the sudden 
clamor of their voices seemed to hold and fill 
the wind. They drew nearer to the vessel, and 
a few minutes later the fugitives were helped 
on board. The night still hung over the ocean, 
but the tender presence of the dawn held the 
sky where it met the coast. 

Suddenly Margery knew that Ottley was 


190 


near. “You are safe,” he said, in an emotion- 
less tone. “ This ship sails for The Hague.” 

He moved away after he had spoken, and 
stood looking out across the water. The tears 
gathered and fell down her cheeks. Her fears, 
her loneliness, seemed embodied in the night 
— floating, sombre-winged forms in the silence, 
the darkness, around her. 

Something made Ottley turn. A ray of 
light from a lamp in the hand of a passing 
sailor flashed on her face for a moment. “ Oh, 
I am sorry,” he said, involuntarily, his tone 
not quite steady. “ How can I help you?” 

But she made no answer, and the light 
danced down the deck. 

“ I know,” he continued, and a new note 
sounded in his voice — “ I know that your heart 
is not mine, does not turn to me, shrinks from 
my claim. I know that gratitude, not love, 
hath made you my wife. And I — I love you 
so much that even the crumbs you give make 
me content. Yet it would be torture to my soul 
to find my presence made you unhappy. And, 
seeing this, I shall place you with some noble 
lady of your own faith — and we shall part.” 

There was no sound for a moment but the 
noises of the ship and the singing of the wind 
and the deep calls of the waves ; then a whis- 


per, that he thought he would have heard 
though dead, reached his ears. 

And — you — ?” 

And I — yes, I will go to Sweden.” 

A sob broke from the girl. “ I have ruined 
your life. I — I have done it.” 

“ My ruin is sweet,” he answered, “ since 
you are here, since you are safe.” 

Oh, forgive me,” she said, “ forgive me. I 
would do anything to give you back your 
past.” 

You are crying,” he said, suddenly. “ Do 
not think of me. Why do you think of me ? 
My past holds nothing beyond the hour we 
met. I can claim and keep and remember 
that.” 

Then the wind caught her whisper, brought 
it to his ears, to his heart. He started and 
drew nearer. 

Sweetheart — !” he said, and took the hands 
stretched out to him in the dark. 

Two months later the following letter reach- 
ed him at The Hague : 

“ Sir, — You have lied, for which I would 
remove you from your command. But, sir, 
you have also repented, whereby the patience 


192 


and long-suffering of God may be shown tow- 
ards the sinner who confesseth his fault, Satan 
being a dark and crafty enemy who doth assault 
the soul with all sharpness and heat, wherefore 
the true soldier should meet and overcome 
him, having the qualifications in his inner man 
whereby the darts of the enemy do fall harm- 
less. Considering that your letter and the 
manner and nature of your trial, being more- 
over willing to remember the work you did on 
manifest occasions in the past, I grant you 
full pardon and permission to live with Lady 
Margery, your wife, on those your lands in 
Lincolnshire. 


Oliver P.” 


APPENDIX 


FOR THE FURTHER INSTRUCTION OF THAT ENGLISH 
MAN OR WOMAN WHO HATH NOT READ THE 
HISTORY OF THE GAEL. 

The Transplanter' s Certificate. 

The certificate given in this story is copied — with a 
change of names and a slight increase in the number 
of the animals — from that of Lord Castleconnell. 
“ An enormous scheme of eviction had been planned 
by Cromwell, which was to include all the native and 
nearly all the Anglo-Irish inhabitants of Ireland. . . . 
This was the transportation of all the existing Catho- 
lic landowners of Ireland ... to Connaught, there' 
to inhabit a narrow, desolate tract between the Shan- 
non and the sea, destitute, for the most part, of houses 
or any accommodation for their reception, where they 
were debarred from entering any walled town, and 
where a cordon of soldiers was to be stationed to pre- 
vent their return.” — Ireland, The Story of the Na- 
tions. Any one of these people found east of the 
Shannon after the ist of May, 1654, were to be killed. 
Some were hanged. Clarendon says, “ They found 
the utter extermination of the nation, which they had 
intended it to be, in itself very difficult, and to carry 


13 


194 


with it somewhat of horror. . . . There was a large 
tract of land, even to the half of the province of Con- 
naught, that was separated from the rest by a long 
and large river, and which, by the plague and many 
massacres, remained almost desolate. Into this space 
they required all the Irish to retire by such a day, un- 
der the penalty of death.” 

The Soldiers' Grants. 

The soldiers’ arrears were paid in grants of land. 
Numbers of them sold them for trifling sums to their 
officers. Sir Charles Coote, Major Ormsby, and oth- 
ers bought up the lots at two-and-six, or, at the ut- 
most, five shillings an acre. 

Cromwell' s Soldiers and Irishwomen. 

“ The English soldiers were forbidden, under heavy 
penalties, to take Irish girls for wives. For any 
amours with them during their service in the army 
they were severely flogged.” — Pre 7 idergast. Dragoons 
marrying were reduced to foot soldiers, foot soldiers 
to pioneers, without hope of promotion. General 
Ireton writes from Waterford, 1651 : “I say any officer 
that marries any such shall hereby be held incapable 
of command or trust in this army.” The soldiers, 
however, married Irishwomen, in spite of threats or 
penalties. 

Margery Ny Guire. 

The Macguires were a powerful clan. Their chiefs 
ruled as princes of Fermanagh from very early times 


195 


to James the First’s reign. Sir Bryan Maguire, Knt., 
was created a peer of Ireland by Charles the First. 
His son, Conner, second Lord Maguire and Baron of 
Enniskillen, joined the rebellion of 1641, and was 
hanged, beheaded, and quartered at Tyburn the 20th 
of February, 1644. 


The Tories. 

These were native Irish who took to the woods, 
many of whom had been soldiers in the armies of 
Owen Roe O’Neil, Preston, and Ormond. They were 
sometimes led by gentlemen whom the times had ren- 
dered desperate. No quarter was ever given them. 


THE END 






By RICHAKD HARDING DAVIS 


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